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The  Duchess 
of  Wrexe 

HUGH  WALPOLE 


^re^k^ 


HER  DECLIHE  AND   DEATH  — 
A  ROMAHTIC  COMMEHTART 


by  HUGH  WALPOLE 


GROSSET  &>  DUNLAP  -  Publishers 

ty    arrangement    with    Doubleday,   Doran    ^  C!ompany,   Inc. 


COPYRIGHT,  I914 
B\  GEOKGB  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  WRBXE 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 

A  SMALL  EXPRESSION  OF  GRATITUIK 
BEYOND  WORDS 


PR 

u;lt>c( 


"And  we'll  have  fires  out  of  the  Grand  Diike*s  Wood." 
L^Ur  to  Maria  Qisbome 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I:  THE  DUCHESS 

CHAPTER  PAGH 

I    Felix  Brun,  Dr.  Christopher,  EACHEii  Beamin- 

STER — They  Are  Surveyed  by  the  Portrait    .  13 

II    Racheli 26 

III  Lady  Adela 42 

IV  The  Pool 54 

V  She  Comes  Out 66 

VI  Fans .  76 

VII  In  the  Heart  op  the  House 85 

VIII  The  Tiger 98 

IX  The  Golden  Cage 108 

X  Lizzie  aistd  Breton 121 

XI  Her  Grace's  Day 135 

XII  Defiance  op  the  Tiger — I 146 

XIII  Defiance  op  the  Tiger — II .  159 

BOOK  II:  RACHEL 

I  The  Pool  and  the  Snow     ......     .  171 

II  A  Little  House 182 

III  First  Sequel  to  Defiance 196 

IV  Rachel — ^and  Christopher  and  Roddy     .     .     .  210 

V  Lizzie's  Journey — I 221 

VI  All  the  Beaminsters 233 

VII  Rachel  and  Breton 246 

VIII  Christopher's  Day 256 

IX  The  Darkest  Hour   ....>....  269 

X  Lizzie's  Journey — ^11      ........  280 

XI  Roddy  Is  Master  .     .     .     ..    >;     .,    .:    >     .     .  290 

XII  Lizzie's  Journey — III    •;    .,    >]    -^    •     •     .     .  308 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  III:  RODDY 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  Regent's  Park — ^Breton  and  Lizzie   ....  333 

II  The  Duchess  Moves  .........  345 

III  Roddy  Moves 362 

IV  March  13th:  Breton's  Tiger  ......  373 

V  March  13th:  Rachel's  Heart 389 

VI  March  13th  :  Roddy  Talks  to  the  Devil  and 

THE  Duchess  Denies  God 409 

VII  Chamber  Music — ^A  Trio 425 

VIII  A  Quartette 436 

IX  Rachel  and  Roddy 450 

X  Lizzie  Becomes  Miss  Rand  Again 454 

XI  The  Last  View  from  High  Window^s  ....  467 

XII  Rachel,  Roddy,  Lord  John,  Christopher      .     .  477 

XIII  Epilogue — ^Prologue 490 


BOOK  I 
THE  DUCHESS 


CHAPTER  I 

FELIX    BRUN,    DR.    CHRISTOPHER,    RACHEL    BEAMINSTER  — 
THEY  ARE  SURVEYED  BY  THE  PORTRAIT 


FELIX  BKUN",  perched  like  a  little  bird,  on  the  steps  of 
the  Rede  Art  Gallery,  gazed  up  and  down  Bond  Street, 
"with  his  sharp  eyes  for  someone  to  whom,  he  might  show  Yale 
Ross's  portrait  of  the  Duchess  of  Wrexe.  The  afternoon  was 
warm,  the  date  May  of  the  year  1898,  and  the  occasion  was 
the  Young  Portrait  Painters'  first  show  with  Ross's  "  Duch- 
ess "  as  its  principal  attraction. 

Brun  was  thrilled  with  excitement,  with  emotion,  and  he 
must  have  his  audience.  There  must  be  somebody  to  whom 
he  might  talk,  to  whom  he  might  explain  exactly  why  thi5> 
occasion  was  of  so  stirring  an  importance 

His  eyes  lighted  with  satisfaction.  Coming  towards  him 
was  a  tall,  gaunt  man  with  a  bronzed  face,  loose  ill-fitting 
clothes,  a  stride  that  had  little  of  the  town  about  it.  This 
was  Arkwright,  the  explorer,  a  man  who  had  been  lost  in 
African  jungles  during  the  last  five  years,  the  very  creature 
for  Brun's  purposes. 

Here  was  someone  who,  knowing  nothing  about  Art,  would 
listen  all  the  more  readily  to  Brun's  pronouncement  upon  it, 
a.  homely  simple  soul,  fitted  for  the  killing  of  lions  and  tigers, 
but  pliable  as  wax  in  the  hands  of  a  master  of  civilization 
like  Brun.  At  the  same  time  Arkvmght  was  no  fool;  a 
psychologist  in  his  way,  he  had  written  two  books  about  the 
East  that  had  aroused  considerable  interest. 

No  fool,  Arkwright.  .  .  .  He  would  be  able  to  appreciate 
Brun's  subtleties  and  perhaps  add  some  of  his  own. 

He  had,  however,  been  away  from  England  for  so  long  a 

13 


14  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

time  that  anything  that  Brun  had  to  tell  him  about  the 
London  world  would  be  pleasantly  fresh  and  stimulating. 

Brun,  round  and  neat,  and  a  citizen  of  the  world  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  the  top  of  his  shining  toes,  tapped  Ark- 
wright  on  his  shoulder: 

"  Hallo !  Brun.  How  are  you  ?  It  ts  good  to  see  you  I 
Haven't  seen  a  soul  I  know  for  the  last  ever  so  long." 

"  Good  —  good.     Excellent.     Come  along  in  here." 

"  In  there  ?  Pictures  ?  What's  the  use  of  me  looking  at 
pictures  ?  " 

"  We  can  talk  in  here.  I'll  tell  you  all  the  news.  Besides, 
there's  something  that  even  you  will  appreciate." 

"  Well  ?  "  Arkwright  laughed  good-humouredly  and  moved 
towards  the  door.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  Duchess,"  Brun  answered  him.  "  Yale  Ross's 
portrait  of  the  Duchess  of  Wrexe.  At  last,"  he  triumphantly 
cried,  "  at  last  we've  got  her !  " 

n 

The  Duchess  had  a  small  comer  wall  for  her  own  in- 
dividual possession.  The  thin  glowing  May  sunlight  fell 
about  her  and  the  dull  gold  of  her  frame  received  it  and 
gave  it  back  with  a  rich  solemnity  as  though  it  had  said, 
"  You  have  been  gay  and  unrestrained  enough  with  all  those 
crowds,  but  here,  let  me  tell  you,  is  something  that  requires 
a  very  different  attitude." 

The  Duchess  received  the  colour  and  the  sunlight,  but 
made  no  response.  She  sat,  leaning  forward  a  little,  bend- 
ing with  one  of  her  dry  wrinkled  hands  over  a  black  ebony 
cane,  a  high  carved  chair  supporting  and  surrounding  her. 
She  seemed,  herself,  to  be  carved  there,  stone,  marble,  any- 
thing lifeless  save  for  her  eyes,  the  tense  clutch  of  her  fingers 
about  the  cane,  and  the  dull  but  brooding  gleam  that  a  large 
jade  pendant,  the  only  colour  against  the  black  of  her  dress, 
flung  at  the  observer.  Her  mouth  was  a  thin  hard  line,  her 
nose  small  but  sharp,  her  colour  so  white  that  it  seemed  to 


SURVEYED  BY  THE  PORTEAIT      15 

cut  into  the  paper,  and  the  skin  drawn  so  tightly  over  her 
bones  that  a  breath,  a  sigh,  might  snap  it. 

Her  little  body  was,  one  might  suppose,  shrivelled  with 
age,  with  the  business  and  pleasure  of  the  world,  with  the 
pursuit  of  some  great  ambition  or  prize,  with  the  battle^ 
unceasing  and  unyielding,  over  some  weakness  or  softness. 

Indomitable,  remorseless,  unhumorous,  proud,  the  pose 
of  the  body  was  absolutely,  one  felt,  the  justest  possible. 

On  either  side  of  the  chair  were  two  white  and  green 
Chinese  dragons,  grotesque  with  open  mouths  and  large  flat 
feet;  a  hanging  tapestry  of  dull  gold  filled  in  the  back- 
ground. 

Out  upon  these  dull  colours  the  little  body,  with  the  white 
face,  the  shining  eyes,  the  clenched  hand,  was  flung,  poised, 
sustained  by  its  very  force  and  wilL 

!N^othing  in  the  world  could  be  so  fierce  as  that  determined 
absence  of  ferocity,  nothing  so  energetic  as  that  negation  of 
all  energy,  nothing  so  proud  as  that  contemptuous  rejection 
of  all  that  had  to  do  with  pride. 

It  was  as  though  she  had  said :  "  They  shall  see  nothing 
of  me,  these  people.  I  will  give  them  nothing"  .  .  .  and 
then  the  green  jade  on  her  bosom  had  betrayed  her. 

Maliciously  the  dragons  grinned  behind  her  back. 

Ill 

Arkwright,  as  he  watched,  was  conscious  suddenly  of  an 
overwhelming  curiosity.  He  had  in  earlier  days  seen  her 
portrait,  and  always  it  had  been  interesting,  suggestive, 
provocative;  but  now,  as  he  stood  there,  he  was  aware  that 
something  quite  definite,  something  uncomfortably  discon- 
certing had  occurred ;  life  absurdly  seemed  to  warn  him  that 
he  must  prepare  for  some  new  development. 

The  Duchess  had^  he  was  aware,  taken  notice  of  him  for 
the  first  time. 

Little  Felix  Brun  watched  Arkwright  with  Interest.  They 
were,  at  that  moment,  the  only  persons  in  the  room,  and  it 


1«  THE  DUCHESS  OP  WREXE 

was  as  thougli  they  liad  begged  for  a  private  interview  and 
had  been  granted  it.  The  other  portraits  of  the  exhibition 
had  vanished  into  the  mild  May  afternoon. 

"  She  doesn't  like  us,"  Brun  said,  laughing.  "  She'd  turn 
the  dragons  on  to  us  if  she  could." 

"  It's  wonderful."  Arkwright  moved  back  a  littie. 
"  Young  Ross  has  done  it  this  time.  No  other  portrait  has 
ever  given  one  the  least  idea  of  her.     She  must  be  that." 

Brun  stood  regarding  her.  "  There'll  never  be  anything 
like  her  again.  As  far  as  your  England  is  concerned  she'a 
the  very,  very  last,  and  when  she  goes  a  heap  of  things  will 
go  with  her.  There'll  be  other  Principalities  and  Powers, 
but  never  that  Power." 

"  She's  asked  us  to  come,"  said  Arkwright,  "  or,  at  any 
rate,  asked  me.     I  wonder  what  she  wants." 

"  She's  only  asked  you,"  said  Brun,  "  to  tell  you  how  she 
hates  you.     And  doesn't  she,  my  word !  " 

There  were  voices  behind  him;  Brun  turned,  and  Ark- 
wright heard  him  exclaim  beneath  his  breath.  Then  in  a 
moment  the  little  man  was  received  with :  "  Why,  Mr.. 
Brun!  How  fortunate!  WeVe  come  to  see  my  mother's 
portrait." 

Arkwright  caught  these  words,  and  knew  that  the  lady 
standing  there  must  be  Lady  Adela  Beaminster,  the  Duchess's 
only  daughter.  He  had  never  seen  Lady  Adela  before,  but 
it  amused  him  now  that  she  should  resemble  so  exactly  the 
figure  that  he  had  imagined  —  it  showed,  after  all,  that  one 
could  take  the  world's  verdict  about  these  things. 

The  world's  verdict  about  Lady  Adela  was  that  she  was 
dull,  but  important,  bearing  her  tall  dried  body  as  a  kind  of 
flag  for  the  right  people  to  range  themselves  behind  her— * 
and  range  themselves  they  did.  Standing  now,  with  Pelix 
Brun  in  front  of  her  demanding  a  display  of  graciousness, 
she  extended  her  patronage.  Thin,  with  her  sharp  nose  and 
tight  mouth,  she  was  like  an  exclamation  mark  that  had 
left  off  exclaiming,  and  it  was  only  her  ability  to  be  gracious. 


SURVEYED  BY  THE  PORTRAIT      17 

and  the  sense  that  she  conveyed  of  having  any  number  of 
rights  and  possessions  to  stand  for,  that  gave  her  claim  to 
attention. 

Her  black  hat  was  harsh,  her  hair  iron-grey,  her  eyes  cold 
with  lack  of  intelligence.  Arkwright  thought  her  unpleas- 
ant. 

Standing  a  little  behind  her  was  a  tall  thin  girl  who  was 
obviously  determined  to  be  as  ungracious  as  a  protest  against 
her  companion's  amiability  should  require.  The  giri's  thin- 
ness was  accentuated  by  her  rather  tightly  clinging  white 
dress,  and  beneath  her  long  black  gloves  her  hands  moved  a 
little  awkwardly,  as  though  she  were  not  quite  sure  what  she 
should  do  with  them.  A  large  black  hat  overshadowed  her 
face,  but  Arkwright  could  see  that  her  eyes,  large  and  dark. 
Were  more  beautiful  than  anything  else  about  her.  Her 
nose  was  too  thin,  her  mouth  too  large,  her  face  too  white 
and  pinched. 

Her  body  as  she  stood  there  was  graceful,  but  not  yet  dis- 
ciplined, so  that  she  made  movements  and  then  checked  them, 
giving  the  impression  that  she  wished  to  do  a  number  of 
things,  but  was  uncertain  of  the  correctness  of  any  of  them. 

She  was  of  foreign  blood  Arkwright  decided  —  much  too 
black  and  white  for  England.  But  it  was  her  expression 
that  demanded  his  attention.  As  she  watched  Felix  Brun 
talking  to  Lady  Adela,  she  seemed  to  be  longing  to  express  the 
contempt  that  she  felt  for  both  of  them,  and  yet  to  have 
behind  that  desire  a  pathetic  hesitation  as  to  whether  she  had 
a  right  to  be  contemptuous  of  anyone. 

It  was  the  pathos,  Arkwright  decided,  that  one  ultimately 
felt  concerning  her.  She  looked  lonely,  she  looked  frightened, 
and  she  looked  "  in  the  devil  of  a  temper."  Her  black  eyes 
would  be  beautiful,  whether  they  were  filled  with  tears  or 
with  anger,  and  it  seemed  that  they  must  very  often  be  filled 
with  both.  "  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  the  handling  of  her,"^ 
thought  Arkwright,  and  then  instantly  after,  "  I'd  like  tQ 
take  away  some  of  that  loneliness.'* 


18  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

"  She'll  have  a  fine  old  time,"  he  thought,  "  if  she  isn't 
too  sensitive." 

Lady  Adela  had  now  moved  forward  with  Bnin  to  look  at 
the  picture,  but  the  girl  did  not  move  with  them.  She  did 
not  look  at  the  portrait  nor  did  she  appear  to  take  any  interest 
in  the  other  pictures.  She  stood  there,  making,  every  now 
and  again,  little  nervous  movements  with  her  black  gloves. 

Arkwright  moved  about  the  gallery  by  himself  a  little,  and 
he  was  conscious  that  the  girl's  large  black  eyes  followed 
him.  He  fancied,  as,  for  an  instant  he  glanced  back,  that  the 
Duchess  from  her  high  wall  leaned  forward  on  her  cane  just 
a  little  further,  so  that  she  might  force  the  girl  to  give  her 
attention.  "  That  girl's  got  plenty  of  spirit,"  thought  Ark- 
wright, "  I'd  like  to  see  a  battle  between  her  and  the  old  lady. 
It  would  be  tooth  and  nail." 

Then  once  again  the  door  opened  —  there  was  again  an 
addition  to  the  company.  Arkwright  was,  at  that  moment, 
facing  the  girl,  and  as  he  heard  the  sharp  closing  of  the  door 
he  saw  in  her  eyes  the  welcome  that  the  new-comer  had  re- 
ceived. 

She  was  transformed.  The  pallor  of  her  face  was  now 
flooded  with  colour,  and  she  seemed  almost  beautiful  as  the 
hostility  left  her,  and  her  mouth  curved  in  a  smile  of  so 
immense  a  relief  that  it  emphasized  indeed  her  earlier  burden. 
Her  whole  body  expressed  the  intensity  of  her  pleasure ;  her 
awkwardness  had  departed;  she  was  suddenly  in  possession 
of  herself.  Arkwright's  gaze  went  past  her  to  the  door.  The 
man  who  stood  there  was  greeting  the  girl  with  a  smile  that 
had  in  it  both  surprise  and  intimacy,  as  though  they  were 
the  two  oldest  friends  in  the  world,  and  yet  he  was  astonished 
to  see  her  there.  The  man  was  large,  roughly  built,  with 
big  limbs  and  a  face  that,  without  being  good-looking, 
beamed  kindness  and  good-nature.  His  eyes  and  mouth  were 
sensitive  and  less  ragged  than  the  rest  of  him,  his  nose,  the 
plainest  thing  about  him,  was  square  and  too  large  for  his 
mouth.     His  hair  was  white,  although  he  looked  between 


SURVEYED  BY  THE  PORTRAIT      19 

forty  and  fifty  years  of  age.  His  dress  was  correct,  but  he 
obviously  did  not  give  bis  clothes  more  consideration  thaij 
the  feelings  of  his  friends  required  of  him.  Ruddy  of  face, 
with  his  white  hair  and  large  limbs  and  smiling  good-humour, 
he  was  pleasant  to  look  upon,  and  Arkwright  did  not  wonder 
at  the  girl's  welcome ;  he  would  be,  precisely,  the  kind  of  friend 
that  she  would  need  —  benevolent,  understanding,  strong. 

They  greeted  one  another,  and  then  they  moved  forward 
and  spoke  to  Lady  Adela  and  Brun. 

Arkwright  watched  them.  There  they  all  were,  gathered 
together  under  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  Duchess,  and  she  seemed, 
so  Arkwright  fancied,  to  hold  them  with  her  gaze.  Little 
Brun  was  neater  than  ever,  and  Lady  Adela  drier  than  ever 
by  the  side  of  the  stranger.  They  talked;  they  were  dis- 
cussing the  picture  —  their  eyes  travelled  up  to  it,  and  for  an 
instant  there  was  silence  as  though  they  were  all  charging 
it  with  their  challenge  or  surrender,  as  the  case  might  be. 
The  girl's  eyes  moved  up  to  it  with  a  sudden  sharpened, 
thinning  of  the  face  that  brought  back  the  gleam  of  hostility 
that  it  had  worn  before.  Then  her  eyes  fell,  and,  with  a 
smile,  they  sought  her  friend. 

Arkwright  did  not  know  any  reason  for  his  interest,  but  lie 
watched  them  breathlessly,  and  the  sense  that  he  had  had,  on 
first  entering  the  room,  of  being  on  the  verge  of  some  new 
experience,  deepened  with  him. 

Brun  was  apparently  suddenly  conscious  that  he  had  left 
his  friend  alone  long  enough,  for  he  detached  himself  from 
the  group,  shook  hands  with  Lady  Adela  and  the  girl,  bowed 
stiffly  to  the  man  and  joined  Arkwright. 

"  Seen  enough  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,''  said  Arkwright. 

They  went  out  together. 

IV 

Felix  Brun  and  Arkwright  were  not  intimate  friends.  "No 
one  was  intimate  with  Brun,  and  the  little  man  came  and 


20  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

disappeared,  was  there  and  was  not  there,  was  absent  for  a 
year,  and  then  back  again  as  though  he  had  been  away  a 
week,  was,  indeed,  simply  a  succession  of  explanatory  foot- 
notes to  the  social  history  of  Europe. 

It  was  for  the  social  history  of  Europe  that  he  lived,  for 
the  eager  penetrating  gaze  into  this  capital  and  that,  some- 
thing suddenly  noted,  some  case  examined  and  dismissed. 
Life  is  discovered  most  accurately  by  those  who  learn  to 
watch  for  its  accidents  rather  than  its  intentions,  and  it  was 
always  the  things  that  occurred  by  chance  that  gave  Brun 
his  discoveries.  He  was  a  cosmopolitan  of  a  multitude  of 
acquaintances,  no  friends,  no  occupation,  an  enthusiasm  only 
for  cynical  and  pessimistic  observation,  invaluable  as  a  com- 
mentator, useless  as  a  human  being. 

When,  as  was  now  the  case,  some  chance  meeting  had 
assisted  his  theories  his  neat  little  body  shone  like  a  celluloid 
ball.  If,  having  made  his  discovery,  he  might  also  have  his 
audience  to  whom  he  might  declare  it,  then  his  very  fingers 
quivered  with  the  excitement  of  it.  His  hands,  white  and 
thin  and  tapering,  waved  now.  His  eyes  were  on  fire.  As 
they  walked  up  Bond  Street  one  might  have  imagined  air- 
bladders  at  his  armpits.  Mercury's  wings  at  his  heels.  The 
quiet  evening  air  was  charged  with  him. 

"  Well,"  said  Arkwright,  smiling  and  looking  down  at  his 
companion.     "  Who  are  they  all  ?  " 

"  Lady  Adela  Beaminster,  Rachel  Beaminster,  Christo- 
pher   " 

"Christopher?" 

"  Dr.  Christopher,  the  Harley  Street  man.  He's  the 
Duchess's  doctor,  has  been  for  years.  The  girl  was  the 
Duchess's  granddaughter  —  Lady  Adela's  niece." 

"Well?" 

"  The  girl's  coming  out  in  three  days'  time.  They're 
giving  a  ball  in  Portland  Place  for  her.  N'obody  knows  much 
about  her.  She's  been  educated  abroad,  and  always  kept 
very  close  when  she's  here.     I  shouldn't  think  the  old  Duchess 


SURVEYED  BY  THE  PORTEAIT      21 

loves  her  much.  She  loved  the  girl's  father,  but  he  married 
a  Russian  actress,  bolted  to  Russia  with  her,  and  the  old  ladj 
never  forgave  him.  He  and  the  actress  were  both  killed  in  a 
Petersburg  fire,  and  the  child  was  sent  home  —  only  tiny- 
then " 

"  Ah !  that  explains  the  foreign  air  she  had.  She  didn't 
look  as  though  she  loved  her  aunt  very  much  either." 

"  'No  —  don't  suppose  she  does.  But  that's  not  it  —  that's 
not  it." 

They  had  arrived  now  at  the  top  of  Bond  Street,  and  they 
paused  for  a  moment  to  allow  the  Oxford  Street  traffic  to 
sweep  past  them. 

It  was  an  hour  of  stir  and  clatter  —  hansoms,  carts,  lum- 
bering omnibuses,  bicycles,  all  were  hurled  along  as  though 
by  some  impatient  hand,  and  the  evening  light  crept  higher 
and  higher  along  the  walls  of  the  street,  leaving  grey-purplo 
shadows  beneath  it. 

They  crossed  over,  and  were  instantly  in  a  dim,  gold- 
en, voiceless  square.  It  was  as  though  a  door  had  been 
closed. 

Brun  still  held  Arkwright's  arm.  "  Now  we  can  talk  — 
no  noise.     Erancis  Breton  has  come  back." 

To  Arkwright  this  name,  unfortunately,  conveyed  nothing. 

"  You  don't  know  ?  "  Brun  was  disappointed. 

"  IsTever  heard  of  him." 

"  Fancy  that.  World  of  wonders ;  what  have  you  been 
doing  with  your  time?  He  is  the  Duchess's  grandson,  son 
of  the  beautiful,  the  wonderful  Iris  Beaminster,  who  eloped 
with  Kit  Breton  thirty  years  ago.  I  believe  the  old  Duchess 
pursued  her  relentlessly  until  the  end.  They  were  married 
only  a  few  years  and  then  Iris  Breton  committed  suicide. 
Kit  Breton  beat  her  and  was  always  drunk ;  an  absolute  rascal. 
There  was  one  boy,  and  he  wandered  about  Europe  with  his 
father  until  he  was  twenty  or  so.  Then  Kit  Breton  died,  and 
the  boy  came  home.  Revenge  on  his  grandmother  was  his 
one  idea.     He  was  taken  up  by  her  enemies,  of  whom  she  al- 


22  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

ways  had  a  goodly  store,  and  they  might  have  made  some- 
thing out  of  him,  if  he  hadn't  developed  his  father's  habits 
and  finally  been  mixed  up  in  some  gambling  scandal,  and 
forced  to  leave  the  country. 

"  You  can  imagine  what  all  this  was  to  the  Beaminsters  — 
the  great  immaculate  Beaminsters  —  you  can  picture  the 
Duchess.  .  .  .  He  went  and  saw  her  once  .  .  .  but  that's 
another  story.  Well,  abroad  he  went,  and  abroad  he  stayed 
' —  just  now,  coming  out  of  the  Gallery,  I  saw  him " 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

**  Positive.  There  could  be  no  mistake.  He's  just  the 
same,  a  trifle  tireder,  a  trifle  lower  down  —  but  the  same,  oh 
yes." 

It  was  when  Brun  was  most  excited  that  he  was  unmistak- 
ably the  foreigner.  N^ow  little  exclamations  that  escaped 
him  revealed  him.  As  a  rule  in  England  he  was  more  Eng- 
lish than  the  English. 

They  had  left  the  square  and  were  passing  up  Harley 
Street.  The  houses  wore  their  accustomed  air  of  profitable 
secrecy.  The  doors,  the  windows,  the  brass  knockers,  the 
white  and  chastened  steps  were  so  discreet  that  Sunday  morn- 
ing was  the  only  time  in  the  week  when  they  were  really 
comfortable  and  at  home.  In  every  muffled  hall  there  was 
lying  in  wait  a  muffled  man-servant,  beyond  every  muffled 
man-servant  there  was  a  muffled  waiting-room  with  muffled 
illustrated  papers:  only  the  tinkling,  at  long  intervals,  of 
some  sharp  little  bell  from  some  inner  secrecy  would  pierce 
that  horrible  discretion.  Upon  both  men  that  shining  suc- 
cession of  little  brass  plates  produced  its  solemnity. 

Arkwright  was  nevertheless  interested  by  Bran's  dis- 
coveries. He  was  accompanied,  as  they  talked,  by  that  pic- 
ture of  the  thin,  dark  girl  moving  restlessly  her  long,  gloved 
hands.  He  could  see  now  that  look  that  she  had  flung  at 
the  picture.  .  .  .  Oh !  she  was  interesting ! 

"  But  teU  me,  Brun,"  he  said,  "  you  go  on  so  fast  As  T 
understand  you  there  are  these  two,  Breton  and  the  girl,  both 


SURVEYED  BY  THE  PORTRAIT      23 

of  them  the  result  of  tragedies.  .  .  .  Do  they  know  one  an- 
other, do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"  1^0.  The  girl  was  only  a  small  child  when  Breton  was 
in  England,  and  you  can  be  sure  that  she  was  carefully  kept 
out  of  his  way.  But  now  that  he's  back  .  .  .  now  that  he'a 
back!" 

"  It's  the  girl  that  interests  me !  "  said  Arkwright. 

"  Oh !  the  girl ! "  Brun  was  almost  contemptuous. 
'*  There  you  go  —  English  sentiment  —  missing  all  the  time 
the  great  thing,  the  splendid  thing." 

"  Explain,"  Arkwright  said,  laughing ;  "  I  know  you  won't 
be  happy  until  you  have." 

"  Why  —  it's  the  Duchess,  the  Duchess,  the  Duchess  all  the 
time.  She's  the  centre  of  the  picture;  she  is  the  picture. 
She's  the  subject." 

Arkwright  said  nothing.  Brun  tossed  his  hands  in  the 
air. 

"  Oh  —  you  English !  'No  wonder  you're  centuries  behind 
everything  —  you  miss  the  very  things  under  your  nose. 
There's  the  Duchess,  sitting  there  —  a  great  figure  as  she  has 
been  these  sixty  years,  but  a  figure  hidden,  veiled.  There 
she  has  been  for  the  last  thirty  years,  shut  up  in  that  great 
house,  wrapped  about  and  concealed.  N^obody  knows  what 
the  matter  was  —  I  don't  know.  I  should  think  Christo- 
pher's the  only  man  who  can  tell.  At  any  rate,  thirty  years 
ago  she  retired  altogether  from  the  world,  and  sees  only  the 
fewest  of  people.  But  all  the  ceremony  goes  on,  dressing  up, 
receiving,  and  the  influence  she  has!  She  was  powerful 
enough  before  she  disappeared,  but  since!  Why,  there's  no 
pie  she  hasn't  her  finger  in :  politics,  society,  revolution,  life, 
death ;  nothing  goes  on  without  her  knowledge,  her  approval, 
her  disapproval " 

"  Her  family,  poor  dears !  " 

"  Oh !  they  love  it  —  at  any  rate,  the  ones  who  are  left  do. 
The  rebels  are  the  younger  generation.  Society  in  England, 
my  dear  Arkwright,  is  dissolved  into  three  divisions  —  the 


24  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Autocrats,  the  Aristocrats,  and  the  Democrats.  I  take  my 
hat  off  to  the  Aristocrats  —  the  Chichesters,  the  Medleys,  the 
Darrants,  the  Weddons.  All  those  quiet,  decorous  people, 
poor  as  mice  many  of  them,  standing  aside  altogether  from 
any  morements  or  war-cries  of  the  day,  living  in  their  quiet 
little  houses,  or  their  empty  big  ones,  clever  some  of  them, 
charitable  all  of  them,  but  never  asserting  their  position  or 
estimating  it.  They  never  look  about  them  and  see  where 
they  are.     They've  no  need  to.     They're  just  there. 

'*  The  Democrats  are  quite  a  new  development  —  not  much 
of  them  at  present  —  the  Euddards,  the  Denisons,  the  Oaks 
■ — but  we  shall  hear  a  lot  of  them  in  the  future,  I'm  sure. 
They'll  sacrifice  anything  for  cleverness;  they  must  be 
amused;  life  must  be  entertaining.  They  embrace  every- 
body: actors,  Americans,  writers;  they're  quite  clever,  mind 
you,  and  it's  all  perfectly  genuine.  They're  not  snobs  — 
they  say,  '  Here  are  our  lands  and  our  titles.  You're  com- 
mon and  vulgar,  but  you've  got  brains  —  you're  amusing  and 
we're  well  bom  —  let's  make  an  exchange.  Life  must  be  fun 
for  us,  so  we'll  have  anyone  with  money  or  talent.' 

"  Then,  last  of  all,  the  Autocrats  —  the  Beaminsters,  the 
Gutterils,  the  Ministers.  I'm  using  Autocrat  in  its  broadest 
sense,  but  that's  just  what  they  are.  You  must  have  your 
quarterings,  and  you  must  look  down  on  those  who  haven't. 
But,  more  than  that,  everything  must  be  preserved,  and 
continual  ceremonies,  dignities,  chastities,  restraints,  pomps, 
and  circumstances.  Above  all,  no  one  must  be  admitted 
within  the  company  who  is  not  of  the  noblest,  the  stupidest, 
the  narrowest. 

"  The  Beaminsters  are  the  bodyguard  of  this  little  army, 
and  the  Duchess  is  their  general.  There,  behind  her  shut 
doors,  she  keeps  it  all  going ;  an  American  like  Mrs.  Bronson, 
ft  democrat  like  Greorge  Lent,  she  spoils  their  games  here, 
there,  everywhere.  So  far  all  has  been  well.  But  at  last 
there  are  enemies  within  her  gates  —  that  girl,  Breton.  Now, 
at  last^  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  must  look  out" 


SUEVEYED  BY  THE  PORTKAIT      25 

He  paused.  They  had  reached  Portland  Place.  To  right 
and  left  of  them  the  broad  road  was  golden  in  the  sun  —  dark 
trees  guarded  one  end  of  it,  bronzed  roofs  the  other. 

Two  carriages  stood  like  sentinels  at  the  upper  end. 

Brim  raised  his  hand  as  though  he  would  invoke  the  spirit 
of  it.  "  There,  Arkwright,  there's  your  subject.  The 
Duchess,  tiny,  indomitable,  brooding  over  this  place.  This 
square  of  London  round  the  Circus,  your  prostituted  street, 
this  splendour,  Harley  Street,  Morris  Square  with  its  re- 
spectability, Ferris  Street  with  its  boarding-houses,  over  them 
all  the  Duchess  is  ruling.  There's  not  one  of  them,  I  daro 
fancy,  that  is  not  conscious  of  her  existence,  not  one  of  them 
that  will  not  see  life  differently  when  she  is  gone.  Mean- 
while, she'll  fight  for  her  Autocrats  to  the  last  breath,  and 
she's  got  a  battle  in  front  of  her  that  will  take  her  all  her 
time.  And  when  she  goes  the  Autocrats  will  go  with  her, 
the  Beaminsters  as  Beaminsters  vdll  be  done  for;  life  here 
round  the  Circus  will  never  be  the  same  again.  There's  a 
new  city  rising,  Arkwright,  and  the  new  citizens  may  forget, 
the  Aristocrats  may  compromise  vdth  the  Democrats,  but 
they'll  turn  out  the  Autocrats.  A  lot  of  good  things  will  go 
with  them  —  good  old  things  —  but  a  lot  of  fine  new  things 
will  come  in." 

As  they  passed  out  of  Portland  Plac«  the  wooden-legged 
crossing-sweeper  touched  his  hat  to  them. 

"  Will  he  come  in  ?  "  said  Arkwright,  laughing. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Brun  gravely. 

Arkwright  shook  his  head.  "  You  can  talk,  Brun,  you  can 
say  a  lot.  But  it's  artificial,  the  whole  of  it.  Your  subject, 
as  you  call  it,  is  in  the  air.  We're  realists  nowadays,  you 
know." 

Brun's  flat  stared  at  them  with  its  hideous  red  brick  and 
ugly  shaplessness.  No  romance  for  Dent  Street ;  the  glitter- 
ing expanse  of  Portland  Place  was  gone. 

"  You  can't  be  a  realist  only,  if  you're  to  do  the  Duchess 
properly,"  said  Brun.     "  There's  more  than  that  wanted.'* 


CHAPTER  II 

RACHEL 

**My  dear  thing,  it  all  comes  back,  as  everything  always  does,  simply 
to  personal  pluck.  It's  only  a  question,  no  matter  when  or  where,  of 
having  enough." — Heney  James. 


NO.  104  Portland  Place  was  the  house  where  the  Duchess 
of  Wrexe  had  lived  now  for  sixty  years.  On  the  left 
as  you  go  towards  the  park  it  had  an  air  that  no  other  house 
in  the  Place  had  ever  been  able  to  catch.  There  were  cer- 
tain buildings,  Nos.  31,  26,  42,  for  instance,  that  were  obvi- 
ously doing  their  little  best  to  present  a  successful  imitation, 
but  they  were  left  a  long,  a  very  long  way  behind.  The  in- 
teresting thing  would  be  to  know  whether  l^o.  104  had  had 
that  wonderful  "  note  "  sixty  years  ago,  when  the  Duchess 
came  to  it.  Probably  not ;  it  was,  beyond  question,  her  pres- 
ence that  had  thus  given  it  its  distinction.  Its  grim  fagade, 
without  her,  would  not  so  strangely  have  hinted  at  beauties 
and  wonders  and  glories  within,  nor  would  the  windows  have 
gleamed  so  finely,  nor  the  great  hall-door  have  symbolized 
such  rich  dark  depths. 

Here  the  temple  of  the  Beaminsters,  here,  therefore,  thi?. 
shrine  of  all  that  is  best  and  finest  in  English  aristocracy. 
It  was  indeed  the  largest  house  in  Portland  Place,  and  most 
of  the  houses  there  were  large,  but,  across  that  blank  austere 
front  more  was  written  than  mere  size.  It  was  Age  at  its 
most  scornful,  but  observant  Age,  an  Age  that  could  compare 
one  period  with  another,  an  Age  that  had  not  forgotten  the 
things  that  belonged  to  its  Youth. 

There  was  very  little,  up  and  down  Portland  Place,  at 
morning,  at  midday,  at  night,  that  the  house  did  not  per- 
ceive.    Those  high,  broad,  shining  windows  were  not  as  otbfit 

26 


KACHEL  27 

windows  —  there  was  assertion  in  their  very  bland  stupid- 
ity. 

Within  the  house  was  dark  and  cold,  with  high  square 
rooms,  wide  stone  staircase,  and  a  curious  capacity  for  clutch- 
ing any  boisterous  or  seedy  humanity  on  the  very  threshold 
and  strangling  it. 

From  the  hall  the  great  stone  staircase  was  the  feature. 
It  struck  a  chill,  at  once,  into  the  heart  of  the  visitor,  so  vast 
was  it,  so  cold  and  white,  so  uncompromising,  so  scornful  of 
other  less  solid  staircases.  Very  ancient,  too  —  went  back  a 
long,  long  way  and  would  last,  just  like  that,  for  ever ! 

What  people  it  must  have  known,  what  scenes,  what  catas- 
trophes encountered !  About  it,  on  either  side,  the  hall  van- 
ished into  blackness;  here  a  gleaming  portrait,  there  some 
antlers,  here  again  an  eighteenth-century  gentleman  with  a 
full  wig  and  the  Beaminster  nose  and  comfortable  contempt 
in  his  eyes  .  .  .  and,  around  and  about  it  all,  silence;  no 
sound  from  any  part  of  the  house  penetrated  here. 

Up  the  stone  staircase,  passages,  doors,  more  family  por- 
traits, more  staircase,  more  passages,  more  doors,  and  some- 
where, in  some  hidden  solemnity,  the  ticking  of  a  clock,  so 
lonely  in  all  that  silence  that  every  now  and  again  it  would 
catch  its  breath  with  a  little  whir,  as  though  it  wondered 
whether  it  really  could  go  on  in  the  teeth  of  so  contemptuous 
an  indifference. 

Eachel  Beaminster's  sitting-room  overlooked  Portland 
Place,  and  caught  the  sun  on  lucky  days  for  quite  a  time. 
It  was  small,  square  of  shape,  like  a  box  with  a  high  window, 
a  tiny  fireplace,  an  arm-chair,  and  a  squat  table  with  a  bright 
blue  cloth. 

Always  during  the  two  years  that  had  been  devoted  to 
"  finishing "  in  Munich  she  had  had  that  little  room,  cosy, 
compact,  before  her.  'Now  did  it  seem  a  little  shabby,  the 
carpet  and  tablecloth  and  curtains  a  little  faded;  it  yet  had 
its  cosiness,  there  in  the  heart  of  the  great  waste  and  desert 
that  the  house  presented  to  her. 


28  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

The  little  silver  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  had  struck  five: 
she  had  come  back  with  Aunt  Adela  from  the  picture  gallery, 
and,  hearing  voices  in  the  Long  Drawing-room  (the  voices 
said,  "  My  dear  Adela,  we  just  came.  .  .  ."  "  Adela  dear, 
how  well  .  .  ."),  she  slipped  up  the  stairs  and  secured  her 
own  refuge,  and  rang  for  tea  to  be  brought  to  her  thera 

She  wanted  to  think:  she  wanted  to  lie  in  the  arm-chair 
there  with  the  window  a  little  open  and  the  evening  air  coming 
from  the  park  across  Portland  Place  curiously  scented  like 
the  sea. 

As  she  lay  back  in  her  chair  her  body  seemed  fragile,  and, 
almost,  in  its  abandonment,  exhausted.  Under  the  black 
eyes  her  cheeks  and  neck  were  very  white,  and  her  black  hair 
gave  it  all  the  intensest  setting. 

She  was  tired,  horribly  tired,  and  she  wondered,  vaguely, 
as  she  lay  there  how  she  was  ever  to  manage  this  life  that, 
in  three  days'  time,  she  must  take  up  and  carry,  a  life  that 
offered,  perhaps,  a  little  freedom,  a  little  release,  but  so  many, 
so  many  terrors. 

As  her  gaze  took  in  the  little  room  —  its  grey  paper,  a 
photograph  of  Uncle  John,  a  bookcase  with  poets,  some  mis- 
cellaneous and  untidy-looking  novels,  and  a  number  of  little 
red  Carlyles,  a  china  cockatoo  with  an  impertinent  stare,  a 
copy  of  Furze's  "  Ride,"  and  a  water-colour  of  red  Munich 
roofs  signed  "  Mary,"  a  tiny  writing-table  with  one  old  yellow 
photograph  of  a  sad  dark  woman  in  a  silver  frame  —  these 
things  were,  it  seemed,  the  only  friendly  things  she  knew. 
Outside  this  room  there  was  her  grandmother,  the  house,[ 
London,  the  world  —  more  and  more  horrible  as  the  circles 
grew  wider  and  wider. 

At  the  mere  thought  of  the  things  that  she  must,  in  three 
days'  time,  face,  her  heart  began  to  beat  so  that  she  could 
scarcely  breathe,  and,  with  that  beating,  came  the  iron  deter- 
mination  that  no  one  should  ever  know. 

She  could  not  remember  a  time  when  these  two  emotions 
had  not  come  together.     She  saw,  as  though  it  had  happened 


EACHEL  29 

only  an  hour  ago,  a  tiny  child  in  a  black  frock  stumbling 
across  endless  deserts  of  carpet  towards  someone  who  looked 
older  and  more  curious  than  anything  one  could  have  con- 
ceived possible.  Someone  sitting  in  a  high  carved  chair, 
someone  leaning  on  a  stick,  with  two  terrifying  great  dragona 
behind  her. 

The  child  was  seized  with  such  a  panic  that  her  breath 
came  in  little  pumping  gasps,  her  legs  quivered  and  trembled, 
her  mouth  was  open,  her  eyes  like  saucers.  And  then,  sud- 
denly, after  what  had  seemed  a  century  of  time,  there  came 
the  thin  trembling  voice :     "  Why,  the  child's  an  idiot !  " 

Since  that  awful  day  Eachel  had  determined  that  "no  one 
should  ever  know."  There  had  come  to  her,  at  that  moment, 
the  knowledge  that  round  every  comer  there  might  lurk 
dragons  and  a  witch.  Sometimes  they  were  there,  sometimes 
they  were  not,  but  always  there  was  the  terror  before  the 
comer  was  turned. 

Life  for  Rachel  during  those  early  years  was  one  long 
determination  to  meet  bravely  that  half-hour,  from  six  to 
half-past.  Every  evening  at  five  minutes  before  six  down  the 
long  passages  she  would  be  led,  then  would  come  the  short 
pause  before  the  dark  door,  a  pause  when  the  beating  of  the 
child's  heart  seemed  the  only  sound  in  the  vast  house ;  then 
the  knock,  someone's  voice  "  Come  in,"  then  the  slow  open- 
ing of  the  door,  the  revelation  of  the  strange  dim  room  with 
the  old  mirrors,  the  purple  carpet,  the  china  dragons,  and 
grandmother  in  the  high  carved  chair.  There  was  always,  in 
the  hottest  weather,  a  fire  burning,  always  Dorchester,  a  large 
ugly  woman,  behind  the  chair,  always  the  cockatoo  see-saw- 
ing on  a  golden  perch  and  crying  out  every  now  and  again 
with  shrill,  hostile  cries.  And  then,  in  the  centre  of  this, 
grandmother,  with  her  terrible  hands,  her  terrible  nose,  her 
terrible  eyes,  and,  most  terrible  of  all,  her  voice. 

Rachel  would  sit  upright  on  her  chair,  and  very  often 
nothing  would  be  said  throughout  the  half-hour.  Sometimes 
Dorchester  would  ask  questions,  such  as :     "  And  what  has 


30  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Miss  Rachel  been  doing  today  ?  "  "  Did  Miss  Hacliel  enjoy 
her  walk  in  the  park  this  afternoon  ?  "  "  Has  Miss  Rachel 
enjoyed  her  lessons  to-day  ?  "  Sometimes,  and  these  were 
the  terrible  occasions,  her  grandmother  would  speak :  "  Well, 
have  you  been  a  good  little  girl  ?  "  or  "  Tell  me  what  you  have 
been  doing,  child." 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice  the  room  would  flood  with  terror : 
the  child  would  still,  by  an  effort  of  will,  her  body.  She 
could  feel  now,  from  all  that  distance  of  years,  the  discipline 
that  it  had  needed  to  steady  her  little  black  legs  that  dangled 
from  her  chair.  She  learnt,  in  time,  to  control  herself  so  that 
she  could  give  long  answers  in  a  grave,  reserved  tone. 

The  old  lady  never  moved  as  she  spoke,  only  bent  forward 
and  stared  at  her,  as  though  she  would  see  whether  it  were 
the  truth  that  she  were  speaking. 

As  the  days  passed  and  Rachel  grew  older  it  was  around 
this  half-hour  that  the  house  ranged  itself.  The  things  in  it 
—  the  rooms,  the  passages,  the  stairs,  the  high,  cold  school- 
room with  its  shining  maps  and  large  frigid  table,  the  tapes- 
try room,  long  and  dark  and  mysterious  with  strange  beasts 
and  horsemen  waving  in  the  dusk,  the  white  drawing-room 
so  delicate  and  fragile  that  the  furniture  seemed  to  be  all 
holding  its  breath  as  though  a  little  motion  in  the  air  would 
dissipate  it,  the  vast  dining-room  with  the  great  hanging 
candelabra,  and  the  family  portraits  and  the  stone  fireplace  — 
all  these  things  existed  only  that  that  terrible  half-hour  might 
fling  its  shadow  about  the  day. 

The  child  was  much  alone;  she  had  governesses,  a  music 
master,  a  drawing  master,  but  from  these  persons,  however 
friendly  they  might  be,  she  held  aloof.  She  told  them  noth- 
ing of  her  thoughts.  She  had  behind  her  her  very  early 
years  that  were  now  to  her  like  a  dream;  she  did  not  know 
that  it  had  ever  really  existed,  that  picture  of  snow  and  some 
dark  kind  figure  that  was  always  beside  her  protecting  her, 
and  in  the  air  always  a  noise  of  bells.  As  she  grew  older  that 
picture  was  not  dimmed  in  the  vision  of  it,  but  only  she 


RACHEL  31 

doubted  its  authenticity.  JSTevertheless,  the  memory  provided 
a  standard  and  before  that  standard  these  governesses  were 
compelled  to  yield. 

There  were,  of  course,  her  uncles  and  her  aunt.  Aunt 
Adela  was  more  immediately  concerned  in  the  duty  of  her 
niece's  progress  than  any  other,  but  as  a  duty  she  always, 
from  the  first,  represented  it.  From  that  first  morning,  when 
she  had  given  her  cold  dry  cheek  to  the  little  girl  to  kiss  until 
now,  three  days  before  Rachel's  freedom,  she  had  made  no 
suggestion  nor  provocation  of  affection.  "  It  is  a  business, 
my  dear  niece,"  she  seemed  to  say,  "  that,  for  the  sake  of 
our  family,  we  must  go  through.  Let  us  be  honest  and  deny 
all  foolish  sentiment." 

To  this  Rachel  was  only  too  ready  to  agree.  She  did  not 
like  her  Aunt  Adela.  Aunt  Adela  resembled  a  dry,  wintry 
tree,  a  tree  whose  branches  cracked  and  snapped,  a  tree  that 
gave  no  hope  of  any  spring.  Rachel  always  saw  Aunt  Adela 
as  an  ugly  necessity ;  she  was  not  a  thing  of  terror,  but  merely 
something  unpleasant,  something  frigid  and  of  a  lukewarm 
hostility. 

Then  there  were  the  uncles  —  Uncle  Vincent,  Uncle  John, 
and  Uncle  Richard. 

Uncle  Vincent,  the  Duke,  was  over  sixty  now  and  very 
like  his  mother,  withered  and  sharp  and  shrivelled,  but  he 
was  without  her  terror,  being  merely  dapper  and  insignifi- 
cant, and  his  sleek  hair  (there  was  only  a  little  of  it  very  care- 
fully spread  out)  and  his  white  spats  were  the  most  promi- 
nent things  about  him.  He  was  fond,  Rachel  gathered,  of  his 
racing  and  his  club  and  his  meals,  and  he  was  unmarried. 

Uncle  Richard  had  been  twice  Prime  Minister  and  was  a 
widower.  He  lived  in  a  beautiful  house  in  Grosvenor  Street, 
and  collected  wine  and  fans  and  first  editions.  He  was  al- 
ways very  kind  to  Rachel,  and  she  liked  his  tall  thin  figure, 
bent  a  little,  with  his  high  white  forehead,  gold-rimmed  pince- 
nez  on  the  Beaminster  nose,  and  beautiful  long  white  hands. 
She  went  to  bave  tea  with  him  sometimes,  and  this  was  an 


32  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

hour  of  freedom  and  delight,  because  he  talked  to  her  about 
the  Elizabethans  and  Homer,  and,  when  she  was  older, 
[Nietzsche  and  Kant.  She  liked  the  warm  rooms,  with  their 
thick  curtains  and  soft  carpets  and  rows  and  rows  of  gleaming 
glittering  books,  and  he  always  had  tea  in  such  beautiful  china 
and  the  silver  teapot  shone  like  a  mirror.  But  she  never  felt 
that  she  was  of  the  same  value  to  him  as  a  first  edition  would 
be,  and  he  talked  to  her  of  the  Elizabethans  for  their  sake, 
and  not  for  hers. 

Lastly,  there  was  Uncle  John,  and  her  heart  was  divided 
between  Uncle  John  and  Dr.  Christopher.  Uncle  John  was  a 
■dear.  He  was  round  and  fat,  with  snow-white  hair  that  had 
waves  in  it,  and  his  face  resembled  that  of  a  very,  very  good- 
natured  pig.  His  nose  was  not  in  the  least  a  Beaminster  nose, 
being  round  and  snub,  and  his  eyes  beamed  kindliness. 
Rachel,  although  she  had  always  loved  him,  had  long  learnt 
to  place  no  reliance  upon  him.  His  aim  in  life  was  to  make 
it  as  comfortable,  as  free  from  all  vulgar  squabble  and  dispute, 
as  pleasant  for  everyone  everywhere  as  it  could  possibly  be. 
He  was  a  Beaminster  in  so  far  as  he  thought  the  Beaminsters 
were  a  splendid  and  ancient  family,  and  that  there  was  no 
other  family  to  which  a  man  might  count  himself  so  fortunate 
to  belong.  But  he  was  kind  and  pleasant  about  the  rest  of  the 
world.  He  would  like  everyone  to  have  a  good  time,  and  it 
was  vaguely  a  puzzle  to  him  that  it  should  be  so  arranged 
that  life  should  have  any  difficulties  —  it  would  be  so  much 
easier  if  everything  were  pleasant.  When,  however,  diffi- 
culties did  arise  they  must  at  all  costs  be  dismissed.  There 
had  been  no  time  in  his  life  when  he  had  not  been  in  love 
with  some  woman  or  other,  but  the  hazards  and  difficulties 
of  marriage  had  always  frightened  him  too  much. 

He  was  not  entirely  selfish,  for  he  thought  a  great  deal 
about  the  wishes  and  comforts  of  other  people,  but  unpleas- 
antness frightened  him,  like  a  rabbit,  into  his  hole.  He 
lived  the  life  of  the  "  Compleat  Bachelor "  at  93  Portland 
Place,  having  a  multitude  of  friends  of  both  sexes,  spending 


RACHEL  8» 

hours  in  his  clubs  with  some  of  them,  week-ends  in  country 
houses  with  others  of  them,  and  months  in  delightful  places 
abroad  with  one  or  two  of  them. 

He  was  very  popular,  alwajs  smiling  and  good-natured, 
and  cared  more  for  Eachel  than  for  anyone  else  in  the  world 
•  .  .  but  even  for  Kaehel  he  would  not  risk  discomfort. 

There  they  all  were,  then. 

Gradually  they  had  emerged,  for  her,  out  of  the  mists  and 
shadows,  arranging  themselves  about  her  as  possible  pro- 
tections against  that  horrible  half-hour  of  hers.  She  soon 
found  that,  in  that,  at  any  rate,  they  would,  none  of  them, 
be  of  use  to  her  except  Uncle  John.  Uncle  Vincent  did  not 
count  at  all.  Uncle  Richard  only  coimted  as  china  or  pictures 
counted. 

Uncle  John  could  not  count  as  a  very  strong  defence,  it  was 
true,  but  he  was  fond  of  her;  he  showed  it  in  a  thousand 
ways,  and  although  he  might  never  actually  stand  up  for  her, 
yet  he  would  always  be  there  to  comfort  her. 

'Not  that  she  wanted  comfort.  From  a  very  early  age 
indeed  she  resolutely  flung  from  her  all  props  and  sympathies 
and  sentiments.  She  hated  the  house,  she  hated  the  loneli- 
ness, most  of  all  she  hated  grandmother  .  .  .  but  she  would 
go  through  with  it,  and  no  one  should  know  that  she  suffered. 


Then,  when  she  was  seventeen,  came  Munich. 

On  the  day  that  she  first  heard  that  she  was  to  go  to  Ger- 
many to  be  "  finished  "  the  flashing  thought  that  came  to  her 
jras  that,  for  a  time  at  any  rate,  the  "  half-hour  "  would  be 
suspended.  Standing  there  thinking  of  the  days  passing 
without  the  shadow  of  that  interview  about  them  was  like 
emerging  from  some  black  and  screaming,  banging,  shouting 
tunnel  into  the  clear  serenity  of  a  shining  landscape.  Two 
years  might  count  for  her  escape,  and  perhaps,  on  her  return, 
she  would  be  old  enough  for  her  grandmother  to  have  lost  her 
terrors  —  perhaps  .  .  . 


U  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

Meanwhile,  that  Germany,  with  its  music  and  forests  and 
toys  and  fairies,  danced  before  her.  Her  two  years  in  it  gave 
her  all  that  she  had  expected ;  it  gave  her  Wagner  and  Mozart 
and  Beethoven,  it  gave  her  Goethe  and  Heine,  Jean  Paul  and 
Heyse,  Hauptmann  and  Morike,  it  gave  her  a  perception  of 
life  that  admitted  physical  and  spiritual  emotions  on  precisely 
the  same  level,  so  that  a  sausage  and  the  Unfinished  Syn^ 
phony  gave  you  the  same  ecstatic  crawl  down  your  spine 
and  did  not,  for  an  instant,  object  to  sharing  that  honour. 

Munich  also  gave  her  the  experience  and  revelations  of 
May  Eversley. 

There  were  some  twenty  or  thirty  girls  who  were,  with 
Rachel,  under  the  finishing  care  of  Frau  Bebel,  but  Rachel 
held  herself  apart  from  them  all.  She  could  not  herself  have 
explained  why  she  did  so.  It  was  partly  because  she  felt 
that  she  had  nothing,  whether  experience  or  discovery,  to 
give  to  them,  partly  because  they  seemed  already  so  happy 
and  comfortable  amongst  themselves  that  they  had  surely 
no  need  of  her,  and  partly  because  she  feared  that  from  some 
person  or  some  place,  suddenly,  round  the  corner  there  would 
spring  the  terror  again.  She  could  even  fancy  that  her  grand- 
mother, watching  her,  had  placed  horrors  behind  curtains, 
closed  doors,  grimed  and  shuttered  windows. — "  If  you  think, 
my  dear,"  she  might  perhaps  be  saying,  "  that  you've  escaped 
by  this  year  or  two  in  Germany,  you're  mightily  mistaken. — 
Back  to  me  you're  coming." 

But  May  Eversley  was  different  from  the  other  girls.  She 
was  different  because  she  saw  things  without  a  muddle,  knew 
what  she  wanted,  knew  what  she  disliked,  knew  what  was 
delightful,  knew  what  was  intolerable. 

To  Rachel  this  clear-cut  decision  was  more  enviable  than 
any  other  quality  that  one  could  have.  At  this  stage  of  her 
experience  it  was  the  asset,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  that  could 
give  life  its  intensest  value.  "  Sit  down  and  see,  without  any 
exaggeration  or  false  colouring,  what  you've  got.  Take  away, 
ruthlessly,  anything  that  you  imagine  that  you've  got  but 


RACHEL  3» 

Iiaven't.  See  what  you  want.  Take  away  ruthlessly  every- 
thing that  you  imagine  that  you  would  like  to  have  but  are 
not  confident  of  securing.  See  what's  happened  to  you  in 
the  past.  Take  away  ruthlessly  any  sentimental  repentances 
or  sloppy  regrets,  but  learn  quite  resolutely  from  your  ugly 
mistakes." 

Rachel's  world  had  hitherto  been  limited  very  largely  to 
the  schoolroom  in  Portland  Place,  the  park  and  Beaminster 
House,  the  country  place-in-chief  (three  others,  one  in  Leices- 
tershire, one  in  Northumberland,  one  in  Norfolk),  but  even 
within  this  limited  country  the  terrific  importance  of  those 
rules  was  driven  in  upon  her. 

She  felt  that  her  grandmother  was  cleai^headed,  but,  no, 
none  of  the  others  —  not  Aunt  Adela,  nor  the  uncles,  nor  any 
of  the  governesses.  She  was  allowed  to  meet  one  or  two 
little  boys  and  girls  of  her  own  age.  She  walked  with  them  in 
the  park,  played  with  them  at  Beaminster  House,  had  tea  with 
them  occasionally,  but  they  were,  none  of  them,  clear-headed. 

She  was  not  priggish  about  this  discovery  of  hers.  She  did 
not  despise  other  people  because  their  definite  rules  did  not 
seem  to  them  of  importance.  She  did  not  talk  about  these 
things. 

To  see  facts  very  steadily  without  blinking  was  impelled 
upon  her  by  the  necessity  for  courage.  It  was  the  only 
weapon  wherewith  to  fight  her  grandmother.  "  Now,"  she 
might  say  to  herself,  "  this  half-hour  of  yours.  Is  it  so  bad  ? 
What  definitely  do  you  fear  about  it  ?  Is  it  the  knock  at  the 
door?  Is  it  the  crossing  the  room?  Is  it  answering  ques- 
tions ? " 

So  challenged  her  terror  did  fall,  a  little,  away  from  her, 
ashamed  at  its  inadequate  cause.  So  she  went  to  face  every 
peril  — "  Is  the  danger  really  so  bad  ?  What  exactly  is 
it?  .  .  ." 

May  Eversley  was  thin  and  spare,  small  with  sharp  fea- 
/ures,  pince-nez,  hair  brushed  sternly  back,  and  every  inch  of 
her  body  trained  to  the  purpose  that  it  was  meant  to  fulfil. 


36  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

She  rang  her  sentences  on  the  air  like  coin  on  a  plate.  Mean* 
while,  as  she  explained  to  Rachel,  she  had  been  fighting  since 
she  was  five.  Her  mother,  Lady  Eversley,  was  the  widow  of 
Tom  Eversley,  now  happily  deceased,  once  the  most  dissolute 
scamp  in  Europe.  He  had  died  leaving  nothing  but  debts 
behind  him.  Since  then  his  widow  and  his  daughter  had 
lived  in  three  little  rooms  above  a  public  house  off  Shep- 
herd's Market,  and  the  widow  had  battled  to  keep  up  the 
gayest  of  appearances.  May  had  been,  at  a  very  early  age, 
introduced  to  the  struggle.  "  My  silver  mug  and  rattle  were 
pawned  to  get  a  dress  for  mother  to  go  to  a  drawing-room  in, 
I  shouldn't  be  here  now  if  it  weren't  for  an  uncle,  and  it's  the 
last  thing  he'll  do  for  us.  So  back  I  go  in  two  years'  time  — • 
to  do  my  damnedest." 

Of  course  she  was  clear-headed  —  she  had  to  be. 

"  There  are  only  two  sorts  of  people,"  she  said  to  Eachel. 
**  Like  soup  —  thick  and  clear  —  the  Clear  ones  get  on  and 
the  Thick  don't" 

May  obviously  liked  Rachel,  but  was  amused  by  her.  'No- 
body,  it  seemed  to  May,  showed  so  nakedly  her  emotions  aa 
Rachel,  and  yet,  also,  nobody  could  produce,  more  suddenly, 
the  closest  of  reserves.  May,  to  whom  the  world  had  been, 
since  she  was  six,  a  measured  plain  of  contest,  marvelled  at  the 
poignancy  of  Rachel's  contact  with  it.  "  If  she's  going  to  be 
hurt  as  easily  as  this  by  everything,  how  on  earth  is  she  going 
to  get  through  ?  " 

Then,  as  the  Munich  days  passed.  May  found,  to  her  own 
delight,  Rachel's  keen  sense  of  humour.  Munich  afforded 
enough  food  for  it,  and  finally  one  discovered  that  Rachel 
smiled  more  readily  than  she  trembled,  but  she  hid  her  smile 
because,  as  yet,  she  was  not  sure  of  it. 

"  All  she  wants,"  May  Eversley  concluded,  "  is  to  be  told 
things." 

Nobody  in  the  world  could  be  better  adapted  to  give  out 
these  revelations.  London,  to  May  Eversley,  was  an  open 
book ;  moreover,  the  most  stormy  of  battle-fields  oa  which  the 


EACHEL  37 

combatants  fought,  were  wounded,  were  slain,  were  gloriously 
victorious. 

She  told  Rachel  a  great  deal  —  a  great  deal  about  people,  a 
great  deal  about  sets  and  parties,  a  great  deal  about  likes  and 
klislikes.  She  had  on  her  side  one  burning  curiosity  to  know 
about  Eachel's  Duchess.  "  Is  she  as  terrible,  so  tremendous 
as  people  say  ?  Has  she  such  a  brain  even  now  ?  Old  Lady 
Grandon,  who  was  a  great  friend  when  they  were  both  girls, 
says  that  she  wasn't  clever  then  a  bit  —  rather  stupid  and  shy 
—  but  you  never  know.  Jealousy  on  old  Grandon's  part,  I 
expect.     They  say  she's  wonderful  still." 

Questions  of  taste  never  worried  May  Eversley,  and  it  did 
not  worry  her  now  that  Rachel  might  dislike  so  penetrating 
an  inquisition.  But  at  least  May  got  nothing  for  her  trouble. 
Rachel  told  her  nothing. 

May's  final  word  was,  "  You  care  too  much  about  it  all  — 
care  whether  it's  going  to  hurt,  whether  it's  going  to  be 
frightening  or  not.  My  advice  to  you  is,  just  dash  in,  snatch 
what  you  can,  and  dash  out  again.  It  doesn't  matter  a  haii» 
pin  what  anyone  says.  Everyone  says  everything  in  London, 
and  nobody  minds.     They've  all  got  the  shortest  memories." 

Rachel,  sitting  now  in  her  little  room  and  thinking  of 
Munich,  wondered  how  completely  her  own  discovery  of  Lon- 
don would  coincide  with  May's.  May's  idea  of  it  was  cer- 
tainly not  Aunt  Adela's.  Aunt  Adela,  Rachel  thought,  was 
far  too  dried  and  brittle  to  risk  any  sharp  contact  with  any- 
thing. None  of  her  uncles,  she  further  reflected,  liked  sharp 
contacts,  and  yet,  how  continually  grandmother  provided 
them! 

How  comfortable  all  of  them  —  Aunt  Adela  and  the  uncles 
- — would  be  without  their  mother,  and  yet  how  proud  they 
were  of  having  her !  For  herself,  Rachel  faced  her  approach- 
ing deliverance  with  a  tightening  of  all  the  muscles  of  her 
body.  "  I  won't  care.  It  shall  be  as  May  says  —  and  there 
are  sure  to  be  some  comfortable  people  about,  some  people 
who  want  to  make  it  pleasant  for  one," 


38  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

Then  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and  Uncle  John  came  in. 
Uncle  John  often  came  in  about  half-past  five.  It  was  a 
convenient  time  for  him  to  come,  but  also,  perhaps,  he  recog- 
nized that  that  approaching  half-hour  that  Rachel  was  to 
have  with  his  mother  demanded,  beforehand,  some  kind  of 
easy,  amiable  prologue. 

To-daj,  however,  there  was  more  in  his  comfortable  smil- 
ing countenance  than  merely  paying  a  visit  warranted.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door  looking  over  at  her,  rather 
fat  but  not  very,  his  white  hair,  his  pearl  pin,  his  white  spats 
all  gleaming,  a  rosiness  and  a  cleanliness  always  about  him 
so  that  he  seemed,  at  any  moment  of  the  day,  to  have  come 
straight  from  his  tub,  having  jumped,  in  his  eagerness  to  see 
you,  into  his  beautiful  clothes,  and  hurried,  all  in  a  glow,  to 
get  to  you. 

"  They're  all  chattering  downstairs  —  chattering  like  any- 
thing. There's  Roddy  Seddon,  old  Lady  Carloes  and  Crew- 
ner  and  some  young  ass  Crewner's  brought  with  him  and  your 
Uncle  Dick  looking  bored  and  your  Aunt  Adela  looking  noth- 
ing at  all  —  and  so  out  of  it  I  came." 

He  came  over  and  sat  on  the  broad,  fat  arm  of  her  chair 
and  looked  out,  in  his  contented,  amiable  way,  over  the  light, 
salmon-coloured  and  pale,  that  now  had  persuaded  Portland 
Place  into  silence.  His  eyes  seemed  to  say :  "  ISTow  this  is 
how  I  like  things  —  all  pink  and  quiet  and  comfortable." 

Rachel  leant  a  little  against  his  shoulder,  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  knee  — 

"  You've  had  tea  down  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  you  —  all  I  wanted.  What  have  you  been 
doing  all  the  afternoon  ?  " 

He  put  his  ovtm  hand  dovni  upon  hers. 

"  Oh !  Aunt  Adela  and  I  went  to  look  at  grandmother's 
portrait." 

"Well?" 

"  It's  as  clever  as  it  can  be.     To  anyone  who  doesn't  know 


EACHEL  3& 

fier,  it's  the  mast  wonderful  likeness.     It's  what  grandmother 
would  like  herself." 

He  caught  the  note  in  her  voice  that  threatened  the  pink 
security  of  Portland  Place.     He  held  her  hand  a  little  tighter. 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  got  the  dragons  and  the  tapestry  and  the  purple 
carpet.  All  the  coloured  things  that  grandmother  likes  so 
much  and  that  help  her  so.  Why,  imagine  her  for  a  second  in 
an  ordinary  room,  in  an  old  arm-chair  with  a  worn-out  carpet 
and  everlastings  on  the  mantelpiece;  what  would  she  do? 
The  young  man,  whoever  he  is,  has  helped  her  all  he  can." 

Rachel  felt  his  grasp  of  her  hand  slacken  a  little. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it's  wrong  of  me  to  taU^  like  that.  But  it's 
all  so  sham.  It's  like  someone  in  one  of  those  absurd  fantastic 
novels  that  people  write  nowadays  when  half  the  characters 
are  out  of  Dickens,  only  put  into  a  real  background.  I'm 
frightened  of  grandmother  —  you  know  I  always  have  been  — 
but  sometimes  I  wonder  whether " 

She  paused. 

"  Whether  there's  anything  really  to  be  frightened  of. 
And  yet  the  relief  when  I  can  get  off  this  half-hour  every 
evening  —  the  relief  even  now  when  I'm  grown  up  —  oh! 
it's  absurd !  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you're  coming  out,  you're  going  to  break 
away  from  all  of  us  —  you'll  have  your  own  life  now  to  make 
what  you  like  of." 

"  Yes,  that's  all  very  well.  But  I've  been  brought  up  all 
wrong.  Most  girls  begin  to  come  out  when  they're  about  ten 
and  go  on,  more  and  more,  until,  when  the  time  actually 
comes,  well,  there's  simply  nothing  in  it.  I've  never  known 
anyone  intimately  except  May,  and  now  at  the  thought  of 
crowds  and  crowds  of  people,  at  one  moment  I'd  like  to  fly 
into  a  convent  somewhere,  and  at  the  next  I  want  to  go  and 
be  rude  to  the  lot  of  them  —  to  get  in  quickly  you  know,  lest 
they  should  be  rude  to  me  first" 


40  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

!N"ow  that  she  had  begun,  it  came  out  in  a  flood.  "  Oh !  1 
shall  make  such  a  mess  of  it  all.  What  on  earth  am  I  to  talk 
about  to  these  people  ?  What  do  they  want  with  me  or  I  with 
them  ?  What  have  I  ever  to  say  to  anybody  except  you  and 
Dr.  Chris,  and  even  with  you  I'm  as  cross  as  possible  most  of 
the  time.  Grandmother  always  thought  me  a  complete  fool, 
and  so  I  suppose  I  am.  If  people  aren't  kind  I  can't  say  a 
word,  and  if  they  are  I  say  far  too  much  and  blush  afterwards 
for  all  the  nonsense  I've  poured  out.  It  doesn't  matter  with 
you  and  Dr.  Chris  because  you  know  me,  but  the  others !  And 
always  behind  me  there'd  be  grandmother !  She  knows  I'm 
going  to  be  a  failure,  and  she  wants  me  to  be  —  but  just  to 
prove  to  her,  just  to  prove !  " 

She  jumped  up,  and  standing  in  front  of  the  window,  met, 
furiously,  a  hostile  world.  Her  hands  were  clenched,  her 
face  white,  her  eyes  desperate. 

" —  Just  to  prove  I'll  be  a  success  —  I'll  marry  the  most 
magnificent  husband,  I'll  be  the  most  magnificent  person  — 
I'll  bring  it  off '' 

Suddenly  her  agitation  was  gone  —  she  was  laughing,  look- 
ing dovTn  on  her  uncle  half  humorously,  half  tenderly. 

"  Just  because  I  love  you  and  Dr.  Chris,  I'll  do  my  best 
not  to  shame  you.  I'll  be  the  most  decorous  and  amiable  of 
Beaminsters. —  No  one  shall  have  a  word  to  say " 

She  bent  dovsm,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  kissed 
him.  Then  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  arm-chair  with 
her  hands  clasped  over  his  knee.  Uncle  John  would  not  have 
loved  her  so  dearly  had  he  not  been,  on  so  many  occasions, 
frightened  of  her.  She  was  often  hostile  in  the  most  curious 
way  —  so  militant  that  he  could  only  console  himself  by  think- 
ing that  her  mother  had  been  Russian,  and  from  Russia  one 
might  expect  anything.  And  then,  in  a  moment,  the  hostility 
would  break  into  a  tenderness,  an  affection  that  touched  him  to 
the  heart  and  made  the  tears  come  into  his  eyes.  But  for  one 
who  loved  comfort  above  everything  Rachel  was  an  agitating 
person. 


RACHEL  41 

"Now  as  lie  felt  the  pressure  of  her  hands  on  his  knees,  he 
knew  that  he  would  do  anything,  anything  for  her. 

"  That's  all  right,  Eaehel  dear,"  was  all  that  he  could  say. 
"  You  hold  on  to  me  and  Christopher.  We'll  see  you 
through." 

The  little  silver  clock  struck  six.  She  got  up  from  the  chair 
and  smiled  down  at  him.  "  If  I  hadn't  got  you  and  Dr.  Chria 
• —  well  —  I  just  don't  know  what  would  happen  to  me." 

Meanwhile  Uncle  John  had  remembered  what  it  was  that 
he  had  come  to  say.  His  expression  was  now  one  of  puzzled 
distress  as  though  he  wondered  how  people  could  be  so  pro- 
voking and  inconsiderate. 

He  looked  up  at  her.  "  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  it's  doubt- 
ful whether  mother  will  see  you  this  evening.  You'd  better 
go  and  ask,  but  I  expect " 

"  What's  happened  ?  " 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you.  You're  bound  to  hear  sooner  or 
later.  Your  cousin  Francis  is  back  in  London.  He's  written 
a  most  insulting  letter  to  your  grandmother.  It's  upset  her 
very  much." 

"Cousin  Frank?" 

"  Yes.  He's  living  apparently  quite  near  here  —  in  some 
cheap  rooms." 

May  Eversley  had,  long  before,  supplied  Eachel  with  all 
details  as  to  that  family  scandal. 

Eachel  now  only  said :  "  Well,  I'll  go  and  see  whether  she 
would  like  me  to  come." 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  then  turned  back  and  flung 
her  arms  again  about  her  uncle's  neck. 

"  Whatever  happens.  Uncle  John,  whatever  happens,  we'll 
stick  together." 

"  Whatever  happens,"  he  repeated,  "  we'll  stick  together." 

His  eyes,  as  they  followed  her,  were  full  of  tenderness  — - 
but  behind  the  tenderness  there  lurked  a  shadow  of  alarm. 


CHAPTEK  III 

LADY  ADELA 

'  At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck. 

And  then  it  seemed  a  mist; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist." 

The  Ancient   Mariner. 


LADY  ADELA  had  returned  from  that  visit  to  her 
mother's  portrait  with  a  confused  mind.  She  was  not 
used  to  cjonfused  minds  and  resented  them;  whenever  so 
great  an  infliction  came  upon  her  she  solved  the  confusion  by 
dismissing  it,  by  leaving  her  mind  a  blank  until  it  should 
take  upon  itself  to  be  clear  again.  To  obtain  that  blank  an 
interval  of  reflection  was  necessary,  and  now,  to-day,  that 
had  been  impossible.  On  returning,  she  had  been  instantly 
confronted  by  a  number  of  people  who  required  to  be  given 
tea  and  conversation,  and  no  time  had  been  allowed  her  in 
which  she  might  resolve  that  her  mind  should  be  cleared. 

Her  confusion  was  that  the  portrait  of  her  mother  was 
precisely  like,  a  most  brilliant  affair,  and  yet  wasn't  like  in 
the  least.  Further  than  that,  in  some  completely  muddled 
way,  it  was  in  the  back  of  her  mind  that  her  mother,  suddenly, 
this  afternoon,  presented  herself  to  her  as  not  entirely  living 
up  to  the  portrait,  as  being  less  sharp,  less  terrible,  less  mag- 
nificent. Horror  lest  she  should  in  any  way  be  doubting  her 
mother's  terror  and  magnificence  —  both  proved  every  day  of 
the  week  —  lay,  like  a  dark  cloud,  at  the  back  of  her  confu- 
sion. 

She  could  not,  however,  extract  anything  definite  from  the 

little  cluster  of  discomforts ;  old  Lady  Carloes  and  Lord  Crew- 

ner,  a  young  thing  that  Lord  Crewner  had  brought  with  him, 

42 


LABY  ADELA  4» 

and  her  brother  Richard  were  all  waiting  for  tea,  and  floods 
of  conversation  instantly  covered  Lady  Adela's  poor  mind 
and  drowned  it. 

The  Long  Drawing-room,  where  they  now  were,  was  long 
and  narrow,  with  two  large  open  fireplaces,  a  great  deal  of  old 
furniture  rather  faded  and  very  handsome,  silver  that  gleamed 
against  the  dark  wall-paper,  one  big  portrait  of  the  Duchess, 
painted  by  Sargent  twenty  years  ago,  and  high  windows  shut 
off  now  by  heavy  dark  green  curtains. 

The  Duchess,  it  was  understood,  did  not  approve  of  electric 
light  and  the  house  therefore  disdained  it.  Parts  of  the  room 
were  lighted  by  candles  placed  in  heavy  old  silver  candle- 
sticks. Round  the  fireplace  at  the  farther  end  the  light 
shone  and  glittered;  there  the  tea-tables  stood,  and  round 
about  them  the  company  was  gathered. 

The  rest  of  the  room,  hung  in  dark  shadow,  stretched  into 
black  depths,  lit  only  now  and  again  by  the  gleam  of  silver  or 
glass  as  the  light  of  the  more  distant  fire  flashed  and  fell. 

The  voices,  the  clatter  of  the  tea-things,  these  sounds 
seemed  to  be  echoed  by  the  darker  depths  of  the  farther 
stretches  of  the  room. 

Lady  Carloes  was  eighty,  extremely  vigorous,  and  believed 
in  bright  colours.  She  was  dressed  now  in  purple,  and  wore 
a  hat  with  a  large  white  feather.  Her  figure  was  bunched 
into  a  kind  of  bundle,  so  that  her  waist  was  too  near  her 
bosom  and  her  bosom  too  near  her  chin  and  her  chin  too  near 
her  forehead. 

It  was  as  though  some  spiteful  person  had  pressed  all  of 
her  too  closely  together.  But"  this  very  shapelessness  added 
to  her  undoubted  amiability;  her  face  was  fat  and  smiling, 
her  hair  white  and  untidy,  and  she  maintained  her  dignity  in 
spite  of  her  figure.  Nobody  knew  anything  with  certainly 
as  to  her  income,  but  she  was  charitable,  and  ran  a  little  house 
in  Charles  Street  with  a  great  deal  of  ceremony  and  hospi- 
tality. Her  husband  had  long  been  dead  and  her  two  daugh- 
ters had  long  been  married,  so  that  she  was  happy  and  inde- 


M  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

pendent  Many  people  considered  her  tiresome  because  hei 
curiosity  was  insatiable  and  her  discretion  open  to  question, 
yet  she  was  a  staunch  Beaminster  adherent,  an  old  friend  ol 
the  Duchess,  and  saw  both  this  world  and  the  next  in  the 
proper  Beaminster  light. 

Lady  Adela  depended  on  her  a  good  deal,  at  certain  times ; 
she  had  foreseen  that  the  old  lady  would  come  to-day ;  she  had 
heard  of  course  of  Frank  Breton's  arrival  in  town,  she  would 
demand  every  detail ;  Lady  Adela  knew  that  the  account  that 
she  gave  to  Lady  Carloes  would  be  the  account  that  the  town 
would  receive. 

By  the  fire  Lord  Eichard,  Lord  Crewner  and  the  non- 
descript young  man  were  talking  together.  Lady  Adela 
caught  fragments.  "  But  of  course  Dilchester  is  incautious 
—  when  was  he  anything  else?  What  these  fellows 
need " 

That  was  her  brother. 

And  then  Lord  Crewner,  who  believed  that  the  windows  of 
White's  and  Brooks's  were  the  only  courts  of  Ultimate  Judg- 
ment. "  That's  all  very  well,  Beaminster,  but  I  assure  you, 
they  were  saying  last  night  at  the  club " 

As  far  as  all  that  was  concerned  Lady  Adela  flung  it  aside. 
She  must  attend  to  Lady  Carloes,  she  must  give  to  her  the 
version  of  Frank  Breton's  arrival  that  her  mother  would  wish 
her  to  give.  But  what  was  that  version?  And  was  her 
mother  really  to  be  depended  upon  ? 

At  so  terrible  a  flash  of  disloyalty  Lady  Adela  coloured. — 
Why  were  things  so  difficult  this  afternoon  ?  And  why  had 
she  ever  gone  to  that  picture-gallery  ? 

Lady  Carloes  had,  however,  not  yet  arrived  at  Frank 
JBreton.  She  never  paid  a  visit  anywhere  without  tabulating 
carefully  in  her  mind  the  things  that  she  must  know  before 
leaving  the  house.  Her  theory  was  that  she  was  really  very- 
old  indeed,  and  couldn't  possibly  live  much  longer,  and  that 
no  moment  therefore  must  be  wasted.     The  more  news  that 


LADY  ADELA  45 

she  could  give  and  receive  before  her  ultimate  departure,  the 
more  value  would  her  life  have  in  retrospect. 

She  never  went  definitely  into  the  exact  worth  that  all  the 
gossip  that  she  collected  might  have  for  anybody  or  any- 
thing ;  as  with  any  other  collection  it  was  pursuit  rather  than 
acquisition  that  fired  the  blood.  At  the  back  of  her  old  mind 
Was  a  perfect  lumber-room  of  muddle  and  confusion  —  dusty 
gossip,  cobwebs  of  scandal,  windows  thick  with  grime  and 
tightly  closed.  There  was  no  time  left  now  to  do  anything 
to  that.  Meanwhile  every  day  something  was  purchased  or 
exchanged;  muddle  there  might  be,  but,  thank  God,  nobody 
knew  it. 

"  You  must  be  very  busy  about  the  ball,  my  dear." 

"  Yes  —  it  means  a  great  deal  of  work.  It's  so  long  since 
we've  had  anything  here,  but  Morris  is  invaluable.  You 
don't  find  servants  like  that  nowadays." 

"  N^o,  my  dear,  you  don't.  But,  of  course,  it  will  go  off 
splendidly.  We're  all  so  anxious  that  Rachel  shall  have  a 
good  time.     It's  the  least  we  can  do  for  your  mother." 

At  the  mention  of  Eachel  Lady  Adela's  thoughts  straight- 
ened for  a  second ;  that  was  where  the  confusion  lay.  It  had 
been  Rachel's  attitude  to  the  portrait  that  had  caused  Lady 
Adela's  own  momentary  disloyalty.  Of  course  Rachel  hated 
her  grandmother.  Lady  Adela  made  a  little  sound  with  her 
fingers,  a  sound  like  the  clicking  of  needles. 

"  As  far  as  Rachel  is  concerned  nobody  can  tell  possibly 
how  she's  going  to  take  it  all.  I  don't  pretend  to  understand 
her." 

Lady  Carloes  found  this  interesting  —  she  bent  forward  a 
little.  "  We're  all  greatly  excited  about  her.  You've  kept 
her  away  from  all  of  us  and  one  hears  such  different  accounts 
of  her.  And  of  course  her  success  is  most  important  —  as 
things  are  just  now." 

Lady  Adela  answered,  "  I  can  tell  you  nothing.  She  isn't 
in  the  least  like  any  of  us,  and  I  don't  suppose  for  a  moment 


46  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

that  she'll  listen  to  anybody.  She  made  a  friend  of  May 
Eversley  in  Munich,  and  I  don't  think  that  was  the  best  thing 
for  her.  But  you  know  —  I've  talked  about  this  to  you  be- 
fore." 

I^ot  only  had  Lady  Adela  talked ;  all  of  them  had  done  so. 
In  the  Beaminster  camp  this  appearance  that  Rachel  was 
about  to  make  was  of  the  last  importance.  There  were 
enemies,  redoubtable  enemies,  in  the  field.  Rachel  Bea- 
minster's  bow  to  the  world  was  for  the  very  reason  that  all  the 
world  was  watching,  a  responsibility  for  them  all. 

But  there  were  many  rumours.  Rachel  was  not  to  be  relied 
upon  —  she  hated  her  grandmother,  she  was  strange  and 
foreign  and  morose.  Lady  Carloes  was  not  happy  about  it, 
and  Lady  Adela's  attitude  now  was  anything  but  reassur- 
ing. 

John  Beaminster  came  in.  Lady  Carloes  liked  him  be* 
cause  he  was  good-tempered  and  injudicious.  He  told  her  a 
number  of  things  that  nobody  else  ever  told  her,  and  he  had  so 
simple  a  mind  that  extracting  news  from  it  was  as  easy  as 
taking  plums  from  a  pudding.  He  did  not  come  over  to  them 
at  once,  but  stood  laughing  with  Lord  Crewner  and  his 
brother.  He  would  come,  however,  in  a  moment,  so  Lady 
Carloes  made  a  last  hurried  plunge  at  her  friend. 

"  What's  this  I  hear,  my  dear,  about  Frank  Breton  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  perfectly  true.  He's  come  back,  and  has  taken 
rooms  quite  near  here.     He  wrote  to  mother " 

Lady  Carloes  took  this  in  with  a  gulp  of  delight.  "  My 
dear  Adela !     What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  Oh !  a  very  rude  letter.  He  told  mother  that  he  knew 
that  she  would  like  him  to  be  near  at  hand  and  that  they  ought 
to  let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  that  he  was  sure  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  hear  that  he  was  a  reformed  character.  Of 
course  he  hates  all  of  us." 

"What  will  you  all  do?" 

"  Oh !  Nothing,  of  course.  We  gave  him  up  long  ago. 
By  a  tiresome  coincidence  he's  taken  rooms  in  the  same  housa 


LADY  ADELA  47 

as  my  secretary,  Miss  Rand.  I  would  send  her  away  if  she 
weren't  simply  invaluable.  But  it  gives  him  a  kind  of  a  link 
with  us." 

"  Monty  Carfax  saw  him  yesterday.  He's  lost  his  left 
arm,  Monty  says,  and  looks  more  of  an  adventurer  than  ever. 
So  tiresome  for  your  mother,  my  dear." 

Then,  as  Lord  John  began  to  break  away  from  the  group 
at  the  fireplace  and  move  towards  them 

"  Roddy  Seddon  told  me  he  might  look  in  this  afternoon. 
.  .  .  Your  mother's  so  devoted  to  him.  He  seems  to  under- 
stand her  so  well." 

The  two  ladies  faced  one  another.  Their  eyes  crossed. 
Lady  Carloes  murmured,  "  Such  a  splendid  fellow !  "  then, 
as  Lord  John's  cheerful  laugh  broke  upon  them 

"  Isn't  Rachel  coming  down  ?  "  she  asked. 

n 

Lady  Adela  left  her  brother  and  Lady  Carloes  together  and 
crossed  over  to  the  group  at  the  fireplace.  Of  all  her  brothers, 
she  liked  Richard  best.  He  seemed  to  her  to  be  precisely 
all  that  a  Beaminster  should  be :  she  liked  his  appearance  — 
his  fine  domed  forehead,  his  grey  hair,  his  long  rather  melan- 
choly face,  his  austere  and  orderly  figure. 

He  had  to  perfection  that  reserve,  that  kind  benignancy 
that  a  Beaminster  ought  to  have;  whenever  Lady  Adela 
questioned  the  foundations  upon  which  the  stability  of  her 
life  depended  he  reassured  her.  Without  saying  anything  at 
all,  he  gravely  comforted  her.  That  is  what  a  Beaminster 
ought  to  do. 

She  knew,  as  she  saw  him  standing  there  by  the  fire,  that 
he  would  never  doubt  his  mother.  To  him  she  would  always 
be  splendid  and  magnificent,  and  with  what  determination 
would  he  expel  from  him  any  base  attacks  on  that  loyalty! 
Lady  Adela  thought  that  power  to  expel  resolutely  and  firmly 
everything  that  attacked  the  settled  assurance  of  one's  mind 
the  finest  thing  in  the  world. 


48  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Lord  Crewner  was  a  thin,  handsome  man  of  any  age  at  all 
over  forty  and  under  sixty.  He  was  polished  and  brushed 
and  scrubbed  to  such  an  extent  that  he  looked  like  an  adver- 
tisement of  some  fine  old  English  firm  that  produced,  at 
great  cost  and  with  wonderful  completeness,  fine  old  English 
gentlemen.  He  believed  in  not  thinking  about  things  very 
much,  because  thinking  let  in  Radicals  and  diseases  and  the 
poor,  and  made  one  uncomfortable.  He  loved  the  London 
that  he  knew,  a  London  bounded  by  Sloane  Square,  the  Marble 
Arch,  Trafalgar  Square  and  Westminster. 

He  was  a  bachelor,  but  might  have  married  Lady  Adela 
had  the  Duchess  not  refused  to  hear  of  Lady  Adela  leaving 
her;  he  adored  the  Duchess,  although  he  was  scarcely  ever 
allowed  to  see  her  because  he  bored  her.  He  always  lowered 
his  voice  a  little  when  talking  to  women,  and  heightened  it  a 
little  when  talking  to  men ;  to  his  valet  he  spoke  in  the  voice 
that  iN'ature  had  given  him. 

Lady  Adela  was  reassured  as  she  came  towards  them.  Al- 
though she  did  not  especially  desire  to  marry  Lord  Crewner, 
the  thought  that  he  might,  had  affairs  been  differently  ar- 
ranged, have  asked  her,  placed  him,  in  her  eyes,  apart  from 
other  men.  At  any  rate  these  two  were  comfortable  to  her, 
and,  for  a  moment,  she  was  able  to  dismiss  Eachel  and  Frank 
Breton  from  her  mind. 

They  talked  easily  beside  the  fireplace.  The  voices  of 
Lady  Carloes  and  Lord  John,  the  pleasant  murmur  of  the 
fire,  the  ticking  clocks,  all  helped  that  lazy  swaying  of  time 
and  space  about  one,  that  happy  reassurance  that  as  the  world 
had  been  so  would  it  continue  ever  to  be,  and  that  the  old 
emotions  and  the  old  experiences  and  the  old  opinions  would 
always  hold  their  own  against  all  invasion  and  decay. 

Lord  Richard  talked  of  Chippendale  and  some  wonderful 
Lowestoft,  Lord  Crewner  talked  of  Madeira  and  Lady 
Masters'  new  house ;  Lady  Adela  listened  and  was  soothed. 

Upon  them  all  broke  a  voice : 

"  Sir  Roderick  Seddon,  my  lady." 


LAJ>Y  ADELA  49 

There  stood  in  the  doorway  the  freshest,  the  most  beaming 
of  young  men.  He  was  tall  and  broad ;  his  face  was  of  a  red- 
brick colour,  and  his  dark  London  clothes,  although  they 
were  well  cut  and  handsome  enough,  were  obviously  only 
worn  to  please  a  necessary  convention.  His  hair  was  light 
brown  and  cut  close  to  his  head,  and  his  body  had  the  healthy 
sturdiness  of  someone  whose  every  muscle  was  in  proper 
training. 

He  came  forward  to  the  group  at  the  fireplace  with  the 
walk  of  a  man  accustomed  to  space  and  air  and  freedom; 
his  smiling  face  was  so  genial  and  good-humoured  that  the 
whole  room  seemed  to  break  away  a  little  from  its  decorous 
and  shining  propriety.  They  were  all  pleased  to  see  him. 
Lady  Carloes  and  Lord  John  came  over  and  joined  the  group, 
and  they  stood  all  about  him  talking  and  laughing. 

Eoddy  Seddon  was  the  only  young  man  whom  the  Duchess 
permitted,  and  people  said  that  that  was  because  he  was  the 
only  young  man  who  had  never  shown  any  fear  of  her.  The 
knowledge  of  this  fact  gave  him  in  Lady  Adela's  eyes  a 
curious  interest.  She  beheld  him  always  rather  as  she  would 
have  beheld  anyone  who  had  learnt  an  abstruse  language 
that  no  one  else  had  ever  mastered  or  some  traveller  who  was 
reputed  to  have  said  or  done  the  most  extraordinary  things 
in  some  savage  country.  How  could  he?  What  talisman 
had  he  discovered  that  protected  him  ?  And  then,  swiftly  on 
that,  came  the  curious  thought  that  she  herself  was  glad  that 
she  had  her  terror,  that  she  was  proud,  in  some  strange, 
inverted  way,  that  any  Beaminster  could  have  the  effect  upon 
anyone  that  her  mother  had  upon  her. 

But  Eoddy  Seddon  had  another  especial  interest  for  her, 
for  it  was  Roddy,  all  the  Beaminsters  had  decided,  who  was 
to  marry  Eachel.  Roddy  was,  in  every  way,  the  right  per- 
son ;  not  very  wealthy,  perhaps,  but  he  had  one  nice  place  in 
Sussex,  and  Rachel  would  not,  herself,  be  a  pauper. 

Roddy  would  never  let  the  Beaminsters  dowTi;  he  hated 
all  these  new  invaders  as  strongly  as  any  Beaminster  could. 


50  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

He  hated  this  mixing  of  the  classes,  this  perpetual  urging  ol 
the  Avorking  man  to  think. 

"  Lots  of  our  fellows,"  Lady  Adela  had  heard  him  say, 
"  get  along  without  thinkin' —  why  not  the  other  fellers  ?  " 

She  felt  now  that  a  conversation  with  Roddy  (vould  com- 
plete the  soothing  process  that  Lord  Crewner  and  her  brother 
had  begun.     He  would  finally  reassure  her. 

She  had  no  difficulty  in  securing  him.  Lady  Carloes  sat 
by  the  fire  and  talked  to  Lord  Crewner,  and  the  nondescript, 
and  the  two  brothers  departed. 

When  Roddy  had  drunk  his  tea,  she  led  him  away  to  the 
farther  part  of  the  long  dim  room,  and  there  by  that  more 
distant  fireplace  the  two  of  them  sat,  shadowy  against  the 
leaping  light,  their  faces  and  their  hands  white  and  sharp 
and  definite. 

"  Who  else  is  dinin'  on  Thursday  ?  " 

She  gave  him  names.  "  The  Prince  and  Princess  are  com- 
ing, you  know,  but  they  aren't  alarming.  They've  been 
often  to  see  mother  when  they've  been  over  here  before. 
They're  getting  old  enough  now  to  be  comfortable.  He 
dances  like  anything  still." 

"  I  always  like  dinin'  in  the  place  you're  dancin'  at.  You 
don't  get  that  shivery  feeling  comin'  up  the  stairs  and  puttin* 
your  gloves  on.  You're  one  up  on  the  others  if  you've  been 
dinin'." 

Lady  Adela  looked  at  him,  and  sighed  a  little  impatiently. 
He  was  incredibly  young  and  might,  after  all,  let  them  down. 
He  was  thirty  now,  but  he  looked  not  a  day  more  than  nine- 
teen, and  he  always  talked  and  behaved  as  though  he  were 
still  in  his  last  year  at  Eton.  She  opposed  him,  in  her 
mind's  eye,  to  that  figure  of  Frank  Breton  that  had  been  be- 
fore her  all  day.  How  could  a  mere  boy  stand  up  against  a 
scoundrel  like  that? 

Moreover,  she  had  heard  stories  about  Roddy.  Women 
had  terrible  power  over  him,  she  had  been  told,  and  then, 
"with  a  glance  at  him,  sighed  again  at  the  thought  that  her 


LABY  ADELA  61 

own  time  had  gone  by  for  having  power  over  anybody,  even 
"Lord  Crewner. 

Well,  after  all,  her  mother  knew  the  boy  better  than  any- 
one did  and  her  mother  loved  him  —  better  than  everyone  else 
put  together  her  mother  loved  him. 

"  HoVs  Rachel  takin'  it  ?  " 

"  How  does  Rachel  take  anything  ?  She  never  says  any- 
thing, and  one  never  knows.  She  seems  to  have  no  curiosity, 
or  eagerness." 

"  I  was  talkin*  to  May  Eversley  about  her  the  other  night. 
May  says  she'll  be  splendid." 

"  I  don't  like  May  Eversley " —  Lady  Adela  nervously 
moved  her  hands  on  her  lap.  "  I  wish  Rachel  hadn't  made 
such  friends  with  her  in  Munich." 

"  Oh,  May's  all  right."  Roddy's  blue  eyes  were  smiling, 
"  Took  her  down  to  Hurlingham  yesterday  and  we  had  no 
end  of  a  time." 

It  was  a  pity,  Lady  Adela  reflected,  that  Roddy  was  so 
absolutely  on  his  own. 

His  mother  had  died  at  his  birth,  and  his  father  had  been 
dead  for  five  years  now,  and  here  it  seemed  to  Lady  Adela  a 
curious  coincidence  that  both  Rachel  and  Roddy  were  or- 
phans —  and  both  so  young. 

She  leant  forward  towards  him  — 

"  You  caji  do  a  lot  for  Rachel,  Roddy.  You  can  help  her 
to  understand  her  grandmother,  you  can  reconcile  her  to  all 
of  us." 

"Oh!  I  say,"  Roddy  laughed.  "Perhaps  she  won't 
have  anythin'  to  say  to  me,  you  know.  My  seeia'  your 
mother  so  often  is  quite  enough " 

"  ]^o.  She  likes  cheerful  people  —  Dr.  Christopher  and 
John.  You're  in  the  same  line  of  country,  Roddy.  She 
doesn't  like  me,  and  I  haven't  got  the  things  in  me  to  draw 
affection  out  of  her.     I'm  not  that  kind  of  woman." 

As  a  rule  Lady  Adela  betrayed  no  emotion  of  any  kind, 
but  now,  this  afternoon,  both  to  Lady  Oarloes  and  Roddy 


52  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

she  had  made  some  vague,  indefinite  appeal.  Perhaps  the 
news  of  Breton's  arrival  had  alarmed  her,  perhaps  her  visit 
to  the  gallery  with  Rachel  had  really  disturbed  her.  She 
seemed  to  beg  for  assistance. 

Roddy  analysed  neither  his  own  emotions  nor  those  of  hia 
friends,  but,  this  afternoon.  Lady  Adela  did  appear  to  him  a 
little  more  human  than  before.  He  was  suddenly  sorry  for 
her. 

"Rachel'll  be  all  right,"  he  assured  her.  "Wait  a  bit. 
By  the  way,  I  met  that  little  feller  Brun  yesterday  —  said 
he  was  comin'  on  Thursday.  He's  wild  about  your  mother's 
picture " 

"  Yes  —  we  saw  him  at  the  gallery  this  afternoon.  Rachel 
and  I  were  there." 

"  Rachel !     What  did  she  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  Seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  it  at  all.  We  were  therb 
only  a  few  minutes " 

Silence  fell  between  them,  a  silence  filled  with  meaning. 
Lady  Adela  had  intended  to  speak  about  Breton  —  now, 
suddenly,  she  could  say  nothing.  The  mention  of  the  pic- 
ture-gallery had  brought  back  all  her  earlier  discomfort  — 
she  saw  the  picture,  the  eyes,  the  nose,  the  mouth,  the  white 
pinched  cheeks.  Then  she  saw  the  great  bedroom  upstairs, 
the  high  white  bed,  the  little  shrivelled  figure. 

Had  Rachel  pointed  this  contrast  ?  Had  Breton  ?  Was  it 
something  that  Roddy  had  discovered  already,  something 
that  had  made  his  courage  so  easy  for  him?  What,  what 
was  going  to  be  done  with  her  if  she  were  no  longer  afraid  ? 
Why,  on  that  terror,  on  that  trembling  service,  were  built 
the  foundations  of  all  her  life.  How  could  she  face  that 
picture  that  the  world  had  of  a  splendid,  historic,  dominating 
figure  if  she  herself  saw  only  a  sick,  miserable  old  woman 
tumbling  to  pieces,  passing  to  decay  ? 

The  minutes  had  passed,  and  she  had  said  nothing. 
Roddy  must  be  wondering  at  her  silence.  To  her  relief  Lady 
Carloos  came  towards  her  to  say  good-bye. 


LADY  ADELA  58 

Roddy's  eyes  were  puzzled.  For  what  had  she  carried 
him  off  if  she  had  nothing  to  say  to  him  ? 

in 

When  they  were  all  gone  she  went  up  to  her  mother.  Be- 
fore the  door  she  paused.  The  house  was  very  still,  and 
her  heart  was  furiously  beating. 

She  opened  the  door,  and  at  the  sight  of  the  room  was 
instantly  reassured. 

Dorchester  met  her.  "  Her  Grace  went  to  bed  early  to- 
night.    But  she  will  see  you,  my  lady." 

Lady  Adela  stepped  softly  to  the  farther  door.  All  was 
well.  About  her,  around  her,  within  her,  was  that  same 
splendid  terror,  that  same  knowledge  that  she  was  approach- 
ing some  great  presence  that  had  been  with  her  all  her 
life 

As  she  opened  the  bedroom  door  and  saw  the  high  white 
bed  she  knew  that  her  mother  was  more  magnificent,  more 
wonderful  than  any  painted  picture  could  possibly  make  her. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  POOL 


ON  that  same  afternoon  in  another  part  of  the  house 
Miss  Eand,  Lady  Adela's  secretary,  finished  her  work 
for  the  day,  and  prepared  to  go  home. 

It  was  about  a  quarter-past  six,  and  the  May  evening  was 
sending  through  the  windows  its  pale  glow  suggesting  soft 
blue  skies  and  fading  lights.  Miss  Hand's  room  told  you  at 
once  everything  about  Miss  Rand.  For  eflSciency  and  neat- 
ness, for  discipline  and  restraint,  it  could  not  be  beaten. 
Miss  Rand  herself  was  all  these  things,  efficient  and  neat, 
disciplined  and  restrained. 

Her  room  had  against  one  white  and  shining  wall  a  black 
and  shining  typewriter.  Against  another  wall  was  a  table, 
and  on  this  table  were  so  many  contrivances  for  keeping 
letters  and  papers  decent  and  docketed  that  it  made  every 
other  table  the  observer  could  remember  seem  untidy  and 
littered.  There  was  nothing  in  the  room  superfluous  or  un- 
necessary, and  even  some  carnations  in  a  green  bowl  near  the 
window  looked  as  though  they  were  numbered  and  ticketed. 

Miss  Rand  was  a  little  woman  who  appeared  thirty-five 
when  she  was  bu^,  and  twenty-five  when  someone  was 
pleasant  to  her.  When  she  was  at  work  the  broad  dark  belt 
that  she  wore  at  her  waist  was  her  most  characteristic  feature. 
Then,  in  keeping  with  this,  was  her  dark  hair,  beautiful  hair 
perhaps  if  it  had  been  allowed  some  freedom,  but  now  ordered 
and  sternly  disciplined;  she  wore  no  ornaments,  and  about 
her  there  was  nothing  out  of  place  nor  extravagant. 

Her  face  was  full  of  light  and  colour  and  her  eyes  were 
beautiful,  but  no  one  considered  them:  it  was  impossible  to 

54 


THE  POOL  55 

look  beyond  that  stem  shining  belt  —  one  felt  that  Miss  Eand 
herself  would  resent  appreciation. 

!From  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  five  o'clock  in  the 
evening  the  huge  Portland  Place  house  absorbed  her  energies. 
She  saw  it  sometimes  in  her  dreams,  as  a  great  unwieldy 
machine  kept  in  place  by  her  hand,  but  leaping,  did  she  leave 
it  for  an  instant,  trembling,  soaring,  carrying  destruction, 
with  it  into  the  heart  of  the  city. 

Meanwhile  her  hand  was  upon  it.  From  Xorris  the 
butler,  from  Dorchester  the  guardian  of  the  Duchess's  apart- 
ments, down  to  the  smallest,  most  insignificant  kitchen-maid, 
Miss  Eand  knew  them  all.  There  was,  of  course,  Mrs.  'New- 
ton, the  most  splendid  and  elevating  of  housekeepers,  but 
when  matters  below  stairs  went  beyond  her  control  Miss 
Rand  could  always  arrange  them.  There  was  nothing,  ab- 
solutely nothing,  that,  in  the  way  of  managing  her  fellow- 
creatures.  Miss  Eand  could  not  do. 

But  it  was  because  Miss  Eand  never  occurred  to  any  single 
creature  in  the  Portland  Place  house  as  a  sentient  breathing 
human  being  that  she  succeeded  as  she  did.  She  had  no 
prejudices,  no  angers,  no  rebellions,  no  rejoicings.  She  was 
the  little  engine  at  the  heart  of  the  house  that  sent  everything 
into  motion.  "  One  can't  imagine  her  eating  her  meals,  Mrs. 
!N"ewton,"  Mr.  I^orris  once  said.  "  And  as  to  her  sleeping 
like  you  or  me " 

To  see  her  now  as  she  put  the  final  touches  to  her  room 
before  leaving  it,  arranging  a  paper  here  and  a  paper  there, 
going  to  the  bookshelf  and  pushing  back  a  book  that  jutted 
in  front  of  the  others,  setting  a  chair  against  the  wall,  placing 
the  blotting-pad  exactly  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  finally 
taking  her  hat  and  coat  and  putting  them  on  with  the  same 
careful  and  almost  automatic  distinction  —  this  suflSciently 
revealed  her.  She  seemed,  as  she  looked  for  the  last  time 
about  the  room  with  her  bright  eyes,  like  some  sharp  little 
bird,  perched  on  a  window-sill,  looking  beyond  closed  win- 
dows for  new  adventure. 


66  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

It  was  one  of  the  striking  points  in  her  that  her  eyes  al- 
ways seemed  to  be  searching  for  some  disorder  in  some  place 
outside  her  immediate  vision. 

She  closed  the  door  behind  her.  As  she  stepped  into  the 
passage  someone  was  coming  down  the  staircase  to  her  right, 
and  looking  up  she  saw  that  it  was  Rachel  Beaminster. 
Rachel  was  on  her  way  from  her  grandmother's  room,  and 
before  she  saw  Miss  Rand  standing  there,  waiting  to  let  her 
pass,  her  face  was  grave  and,  in  that  half-light,  strangely 
white.     Then,  as  she  saw  Miss  Rand,  she  smiled  — 

"  Good  evening,  Miss  Rand." 

"  Good  evening.  Miss  Beaminster." 

*'  I'm  afraid  that  this  ball  is  giving  you  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"  I  think  that  everything  is  arranged  now.  Miss  Bea- 
minster.    I  hope  that  it  will  be  a  great  success." 

Rachel  sighed  and  then  laughed. 

"  Don't  I  wish  the  whole  stupid  thing  was  over.  And  I 
expect  you  do  too !  " 

Miss  Rand  smiled  a  very  little.  "  It's  good  for  the  serv- 
ants," she  said.  "  They're  always  happy  when  they're  really 
busy." 

For  a  moment  they  stood  there  smiling.  It  occurred  to 
Rachel  that  Miss  Rand  must  be  rather  nice.  She  had  never 
thought  of  her  before  as  anything  but  Aunt  Adela's  secre- 
tary. 

"  Good  night.  Miss  Rand." 

"  Good  night.  Miss  Beaminster.'^ 

n 

In  Portland  Place  Miss  Rand  drew  a  little  breath  and 
paused.  So  many  times  during  the  last  five  years  had  she 
walked  from  Portland  Place  to  Saxton  Square,  and  from 
Saxton  Square  to  Portland  Place,  that  the  streets  and  houses 
encountered  by  her  had  become  individual,  alive,  always 
offering  to  her  some  fresh  adventure  or  romance.  Portland 
Place  itself  was  no  bad  beginning,  with  its  high  white  colour, 


THE  POOL  671 

its  air,  and  its  dark  mysterious  park  hovering  at  tHe  edge 
of  it. 

If  one  had  not  known,  Miss  Eand  thought,  one  might  have 
supposed  that  just  hejond  it  lay  the  sea,  so  fresh  and  full  of 
breezes  was  the  air.  The  light  was  yellow  now  and  the 
houses  black  and  sharp  against  the  faint  sky.  In  another 
half-hour  the  lamps  would  be  lit. 

It  was  pleasant  and  fitting  that  the  end  of  Portland  Place 
should  be  guarded  by  the  Round  Church  and  the  Queen'g 
Hall.  "  Leave  that  calm  and  chaste  society  behind  you,'* 
those  places  said,  "  but  before  you  plunge  into  the  wicked 
careless  world  (that  is  Oxford  Circus)  dlioose  from  us.  Here 
you  have  religion  or  music,  both  if  you  will,  but  here  at 
any  rate  we  are,  the  very  best  of  our  kind." 

The  Queen's  Hall  looked  shabby  in  the  evening  light,  but 
Miss  Rand  liked  that;  it  heightened  her  sense  of  the  splen- 
dour within  —  Beethoven  and  Wagner  and  Brahms  needed 
no  illumination  —  it  was  your  musical  comedy  demanded 
that. 

Miss  Rand  liked  good  music. 

Then  there  was  the  Polytechnic  with  wonderful  offers  in 
the  windows  enticing  you  to  see  Rome  for  eleven  guineas,  and 
Paris  for  three,  and  there  was  a  hat  shop  with  three  glorious 
hats  wickedly  dangling  on  poles,  and  there  was  a  pastry- 
cook's, a  tobacconist's,  and  a  theatre  agency :  all  this  variety 
paving  the  way  between  music  and  religion  and  the  whirling, 
tossing,  heaving  melodrama  of  Oxford  Circus. 

Miss  Rand  loved  Oxford  Circus.  It  was  like  the  sea  in 
that  it  was  never  from  one  moment  to  another  the  same. 
Miss  Rand  knew  the  way  that  it  had  of  piling  the  melodrama 
up  and  up,  faster  and  faster,  wilder  and  wilder,  bursting 
into  a  frantic  climax  and  then  sinking  back,  for  hours  per- 
haps, into  comparative  silence.  She  knew  all  its  moods, 
from  its  broom  and  milkman  mood  in  the  early  morning,  to 
its  soiled  and  slinking  mood  somewhere  between  midnight 
and  one  o'clock. 


68  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

Just  now  it  was  getting  ready  for  the  evening.  Up  Regent 
Street  the  cabs  and  buses  were  straining,  the  flower  women 
with  their  baskets  were  bunched  in  splashes  of  colour  against 
the  distant  outline  of  the  Roumd  Church.  Out  of  every  door 
people  were  pouring,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  Circus  three 
of  the  four  lines  of  traffic  were  turned  suddenly  into  some- 
thing sleepy  and  indifferent  by  the  hand  of  a  policeman.  For 
an  instant  the  restless  movement  seemed  to  be  crystallized  — 
the  hansoms,  the  bicycles,  the  omnibuses,  the  carts  were  all 
held,  then  at  a  sign  the  flow  and  interflow  had  begun  once 
more;  life  was  hurled  in  and  hurled  out  again,  stirred  and 
tossed  and  turned,  as  though  some  giant  cook  were  up  in  the 
heavens  busy  over  a  giant  pudding. 

And  the  light  faded  and  the  lamps  came  out,  and  Miss 
Rand,  walking  through  two  streets  that  were  as  dark  and 
secret  as  though  they  were  spying  on  the  Circus  and  were 
going  to  give  all  its  secrets  away  very  shortly,  passed  into 
Saxton  Square. 

To-night  Miss  Rand  had  more  to  think  about  than  Oxford 
Circus.  She  was  tired  after  all  the  work  that  there  had  been 
during  the  last  few  days,  and  she  always  noticed  that  it  was 
when  she  was  tired  that  she  was  ready  to  imagine  things. 
She  had  been  imagining  things  all  day  and  had  found  it 
really  difficult  to  keep  steadily  to  her  proper  work,  but  out 
and  beyond  her  imagination  there  was,  before  her,  this 
definite,  tremendous  fact  —  namely,  that  she  would  find,  this 
evening,  on  entering  her  little  drawing-room,  that  Mr. 
Erancis  Breton  was  being  entertained  at  tea  by  her  sister  and 
mother. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  seven  now,  so  perhaps  he  had  gone,  but 
at  any  rate  there  would  be  a  great  deal  that  her  mother  and 
sister  would  wish  to  tell  her  about  him.  A  week  ago  Mr. 
Erancis  Breton  had  come  to  live  on  the  second  floor  in  24 
Saxton  Square,  had  put  there  his  own  furniture,  had  brought 
with  him  his  own  man-servant  (a  most  sinister-looking  man). 
These  matters  might  have  remained   (although,  of  course, 


THE  POOL  6^ 

Miss  Lizzie  Kand's  connection  with  the  Beaminster  family 
made  his  arrival  of  the  most  dramatic  interest)  had  not  Miss 
Daisy  Eand  (Miss  Lizzie  Eand's  prettier  and  younger  sister) 
happened,  one  evening,  to  run  into  Mr.  Breton  in  the  dark 
hall ;  she  screamed  aloud  because  she  thought  him  a  burglar, 
became  very  shaky  about  the  knees,  and  needed  Mr.  Breton's 
assistance  as  far  as  the  Band  drawing-room.  Here,  of  course, 
there  followed  conversation;  finally  Mr.  Breton  was  asked 
to  tea  and  accepted  the  invitation. 

On  this  very  afternoon  must  this  tea-party  have  taken 
place.  Lizzie  Rand  knew  her  mother  and  sister  very  well, 
and  she  had,  long  ago,  learnt  that  their  motto  was,  "  Let 
everything  go  for  the  sake  of  adventure."  That  was  well 
enough,  but  when  your  income  was  very  small  indeed,  and 
you  wished  to  do  no  work  at  all  and  yet  to  have  your  home 
pleasant  and  your  life  adventurous,  certainly  someone  must 
suffer.     Everything  had  always  fallen  upon  Lizzie. 

Mrs.  Band's  husband  had  been  a  colonel  and  they  had  lived 
at  Eastbourne;  on  his  death  it  was  discovered  that  he  had 
debts  and  obligations  to  a  lady  in  the  chorus  of  a  light  opera 
then  popular  in  London.  The  debts  and  the  lady  Mrs.  Band 
had  covered  with  romance,  because  she  considered  that  they 
were  due  to  the  Colonel's  insatiable  appetite  for  Adventure  -— 
but,  romance  or  no,  there  was  now  very  little  to  live  upon. 

They  moved  to  London.  Daisy  was  obviously  so  pretty 
that  it  would  be  absurd  to  expect  her  to  work,  and  "  she  would 
be  married  in  a  minute,"  so  Lizzie  had,  during  the  last  five 
years,  kept  the  family.  It  would  be  impossible  to  give  any 
clear  idea  of  the  effect  on  Mrs.  Band  that  Lizzie's  connection 
with  the  Beaminster  family  had.  Mrs.  Band  loved  anything 
that  was  great  and  solemn  and  ceremonious;  she  loved 
Boyalties,  bands  and  soldiers  gave  her  a  choke  in  her  throat, 
the  "  Society  !N'ews  "  in  the  Daily  Mail  was  like  a  fine  pic- 
ture or  a  splendid  play.  She  was  no  snob;  it  was  simply 
that  she  saw  life  as  a  background  to  slow  stately  figures 
gorgeously  attired. 


60  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

In  all  England  there  was  no  one  like  the  Duchess  of 
Wrexe ;  in  all  England  there  was  no  family  like  the  Beamin- 
ster  family. 

Even  Royalty  had  not  quite  their  glow  and  glitter ;  Royalty 
you  might  see  any  day,  driving,  bowing,  smiling.  The  Queen 
had  a  smile  for  everyone  and  was  at  home  in  the  merest 
cottage;  but  the  Duchess,  the  Duchess  —  no  one,  not  even 
Lizzie,  on  whose  shoulders  the  whole  fortunes  of  the  Bea* 
minsters  rested,  ever  saw. 

There  was  nothing  about  the  Beaminsters  that  Mrs.  Rand 
did  not  know,  and  so  of  course  she  knew  all  about  the  un- 
happy past  history  of  Francis  Breton.  That  any  Beaminster 
should  have  behaved  rather  as  her  ov7n  dead  colonel  had  once 
behaved  gave  one  a  link  at  once. 

Mrs.  Rand's  mind  was,  at  the  best  of  times,  a  confused 
one,  and,  in  the  dead  of  night,  she  could  imagine  a  scene  in 
which  the  wonderful  Duchess  would  send  for  her,  give  her 
tea,  press  her  hands  and  say,  "  Ah !  Dear  Mrs.  Rand,  our 
men-folk  —  your  husband  and  my  grandson  —  what  trouble 
they  give  us,  but  we  love  them  nevertheless." 

So  romantic  was  Mrs.  Rand's  mind  that  she  saw  nothing 
extraordinary  in  the  coincidence  of  Mr.  Breton's  arrival  at 
their  very  doors.  Of  course  he  would  arrive  there !  Where 
else  could  he  arrive?  And  of  course  he  would  fall  in  love 
with  Daisy,  would  reform  for  her  sake;  there  would  be  a 
splendid  marriage;  the  Duchess  would  thank  Mrs.  Rand  for 
having  saved  her  grandson. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Rand  had  an  incurably  romantic  mind. 

Lizzie  knew  all  about  her  mother's  mind,  and  Daisy's 
mind.  She  dealt  with  them  very  much  as  she  dealt  with 
Lady  Adela's  mind  or  Lord  John's  mind.  They  were  all 
muddled  people  together,  and  the  clear-headed  people  had 
the  advantage  over  them. 

So  with  regard  to  her  mother  and  sister  Lizzie  had 
developed  a  protective  feeling ;  she  wished  to  save  them  from 


THE  POOL  61 

the  inroads  of  the  clear-headed  people  who  might  so  rob  and 
devour  them. 

She  saw  also  that  her  connection  with  the  Beaminster 
family  was  a  very  bad  thing  for  her  mother  and  sister  be- 
cause it  encouraged  them  to  be  romantic  and  muddled  and 
idle.  But,  at  present,  at  any  rate,  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done. 

As  she  turned  into  the  grey  silence  of  little  Saxton  Square 
she  did  hope  that  her  mother  and  sister  would  not  behave 
too  outrageously  about  Mr.  Breton.  She  was  interested,  she 
would  like  to  see  him;  his  whole  possible  relation  to  the 
Duchess  J  to  Lady  Adela,  to  Miss  Beaminster  set  her  own 
imagination  working.  She  did  hope  that  her  mother  and 
sister  would  not  behave  so  disgracefully  that  they  would 
frighten  Mr.  Breton  away  so  that  he  would  never  come  near 
them  again. 

And  then,  as  she  reached  the  door  of  iN"©.  24,  she  thought 
for  a  moment  of  Rachel  Beaminster. 

"  I  like  her,"  she  thought,  "  I'd  like  to  know  her.  She's 
never  spoken  to  me  like  that  before." 

Ill 

!N"o.  24  had  three  floors :  the  ground  floor  was  occupied  by 
the  Rands,  the  first  floor  by  Breton  and  the  second  floor  by 
an  old  decrepit  invalid  called  Caesar  and  his  son,  who  was  a 
bank  clerk. 

Down  in  the  basement  lived  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tweed,  owners 
of  the  whole  house;  he  had  been  a  butler  and  she  a  house- 
keeper, and  exceedingly  respectable  they  were.  Every  floor 
had  its  own  kitchen  and  every  lodger  found  his  own  servants, 
but  the  hall  was  common  for  all  the  three  floors,  and  if  young 
Mr.  Caesar  came  in  at  two  in  the  morning  and  banged  the 
front  door  everybody  knew  about  it. 

It  must  have  been  a  fine  old  house  in  its  day,  "No.  24,  and 
there  were  still  fine  carvings,  good  fireplaces  and  ceilings, 


62  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WHEXE 

high  broad  windows  and  thick  solid  walls.  Mrs.  Rand  liked 
to  think  that  her  drawing-room  had  once  seen  fine  eighteenth- 
century  ladies  reflected  in  its  mirrors,  heard  the  tapping  of 
high-heeled  shoes  on  its  polished  floors.  The  thought  of 
those  glorious  days  gave  her  own  rather  faded  furniture  a 
colour  and  a  touch  of  poetry.  Sometimes,  Lizzie  thought 
with  a  sigh,  if  her  mother  had  inhabited  a  plain  nineteenth- 
century  house  living  within  a  small  income  would  have  been 
easier  for  her. 

Lizzie,  entering  the  drawing-room,  knew  at  once  that  Mr. 
Breton  was  still  there.  She  saw  that  he  was  tall  and  spare, 
that  he  had  no  left  arm,  that  he  had  a  rather  small  pointed 
brown  beard  and  eyes  that  struck  her  as  fierce  and  protest- 
ing. She  did  not  know  whether  it  were  the  beard  or  the  eyes 
or  the  absence  of  the  arm,  but  at  her  first  vision  of  him  she 
said  to  herself :  "  He's  too  dramatic ;  it's  not  quite  real," 
and  her  second  thought  was :  "  He's  just  what  mother  will 
like  him  to  be !  " 

He  was  standing  against  the  window,  and  he  wore  a  black 
suit,  a  little  faded.  The  blinds  had  not  been  drawn,  and  the 
square  beyond  the  window  was  elephant  grey,  with  the  lamps 
at  each  corner  a  dim  yellow;  there  was  a  thin  rather  ragged 
garden  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  and  in  the  garden  was  a 
statue  of  a  nymph,  old  and  deserted,  and  some  trees  now 
faintly  green.  Over  it  all  was  a  sky  so  pale  that  it  was  more 
nearly  white  than  blue. 

Although  the  curtains  had  not  been  drawn  a  lamp  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  was  lit  and  the  fire  burnt  merrily.  The 
furniture  had  once  been  good  and  was  now  respectable. 
There  were  several  photographs,  a  copy  of  "  The  Fighting 
Temeraire,"  and  a  water-colour  sketch  of  "  Lodore  Falls." 
There  was  a  book-case  with  the  works  of  Tennyson,  Long- 
fellow, and  Miss  Braddon,  and  on  one  of  the  tables  two 
French  novels,  one  by  Gyp  and  one  by  Zola. 

Mrs.  Band  would  have  been  handsome  had  her  grey  hair 
been  less  untidy  and  her  clothes  more  uniform  in  design  and 


THE  POOL  63 

colour.  Her  blouse  was  cut  too  low  and  she  wore  too  many 
rings;  her  eyes  always  wore  a  lying-in-wait  expression,  as 
though  she  might  be  called  on  to  be  excited  at  any  moment 
and  didn't  wish  to  miss  the  opportunity. 

Daisy  Rand  was  pretty  and  pink  with  light  fluffy  hair. 
All  her  clothes  looked  as  though  their  chief  purpose  were  to 
reveal  other  clothes.  The  impression  that  she  left  on  a  casual 
observer  was  that  she  must  be  cold  in  such  thin  things. 

Lizzie,  looking  at  Frank  Breton,  could  not  tell  what  im- 
pression her  sister  and  mother  had  made  upon  him.  "  At 
any  rate,"  she  thought,  "  he's  stayed  a  long  time.  That  looks 
as  though  he  had  been  entertained."  She  was  introduced  to 
him  and  liked  the  cool,  firm  grasp  of  his  hand.  She  saw  that 
her  mother  and  Daisy  were  quiet  and  subdued  —  that  was  a 
good  thing.  She  caught,  before  she  sat  down,  his  instinctive 
look  of  surprise.  She  knew  that  he  had  not  expected  her  to 
be  like  that. 

"  We've  been  telling  Mr.  Breton,  Lizzie,"  said  Mrs.  Rand, 
"  all  about  the  theatres.  He's  been  away  so  long  that  he's 
quite  out  of  touch  with  things." 

Lizzie  always  knew  when  her  mother  was  finding  conversa- 
tion difficult  by  the  amount  of  enthusiasm  and  surprise  that 
she  put  into  her  sentences. 

"  So  terrible  it  must  be  to  have  missed  so  many  splendid 
things." 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Eand,"  said  Breton,  "  that  I've  been, 
seeing  other  splendid  things  in  other  countries.  !Now  I'm 
ready  for  this  one  again." 

Mrs.  Eand  was  silent  and  at  a  loss.  Lizzie  knew  the 
explanation  of  this.  Her  mother  had  been  trying  to  venture 
on  to  the  subject  of  Breton's  family  and  had  found  un- 
expected difficulty.  Perhaps  there  had  been  something  in 
Breton's  attitude  that  had  warned  her. 

They  talked  for  a  little  while,  but  disjointedly.  Then 
suddenly  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  young  Mr.  Csesar, 
a  bony  youth  with  a  high  collar  and  an  unsuccessful  mous- 


64  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

tache,  came  in.  He  had  not  very  mucli  to  say,  but  the  result 
of  his  coming  was  that  Lizzie  found  herself  standing  at  the 
window  with  Breton ;  they  looked  at  the  square  now  sinking 
into  dusk. 

He  spoke ;  his  voice  was  lowered :  "  I  understand  that  you 
are  secretary  to  my  aunt,  Miss  Rand  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  They  haven't  heard  of  my  return  with  any  great  delight, 
I'm  afraid?" 

She  noticed  that  he  was  trying  to  steady  his  voice,  but 
that  it  shook  a  little  in  spite  of  his  efforts. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  looking  up  and  smiling.  "  I'm 
far  too  busy  to  think  of  things  that  are  not  my  concern." 

"  They  are  giving  a  ball  to-morrow  night  for  my  cousin  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  see  much  of  her  ?  " 

"  ISTo  —  nothing  at  all.     She's  been  abroad,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  so  I  heard.  But  I  saw  her  driving  yesterday.  She 
looks  different  from  the  rest  of  them." 

All  this  time,  as  he  spoke  to  her,  she  was  conscious  of  his 
eyes ;  if  only  she  could  have  been  sure  that  the  protest  in  them 
was  genuine  she  would  have  been  moved  by  them. 

She  did  not  help  him  in  any  way,  and  perhaps  her  silence 
made  him  feel  that  he  had  done  wrong  to  speak  to  her  about 
his  affairs.  They  looked  at  the  square  for  a  little  time  in 
silence.  At  last,  speaking  without  any  implied  fierceness,  he 
said: 

"  You  know,  Miss  Rand,  I'm  a  wanderer  by  nature,  and 
sometimes  I  find  cities  very  hard  to  bear.  Do  you  know  what 
I  do?" 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  Turn  them  into  other  things.  "Now  here  in  London,  do 
you  never  think  of  streets  as  waterways?  Portland  Place, 
for  instance,  is  like  ever  so  many  rivers  I've  seen,  broad  and 
shining.  And  some  of  those  high  thin  streets  beside  it  are 
like  canals ;  Oxford  Circus  is  a  whirlpool,  and  so  on " 


THE  POOL  66 

He  langhecL  "  I  get  no  end  of  relief  from  thinking  of 
things  like  that." 

"  You  hate  cities  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

**  No  —  not  really.  But  it  depends  how  they  receive  you. 
If  they're  hostile "     He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  And  this  square  ?  "  she  said.     "  What's  this  square  ?  " 

"  A  pool.  All  the  houses  hang  over  it  as  though  they  were 
hiding  it.     It's  restful  like  a  pool.     There's  no  noise " 

The  statue  of  the  nymph  had  disappeared.  The  trees  were 
a  black  splash  against  the  lamp-lit  walls.  Lights  were  in  the 
windows. 

He  seemed  suddenly  conscious  that  it  was  late.  When  he 
had  gone  Lizzie  stood,  for  some  time,  looking  into  the  square 
and  thinking  how  right  he  had  been. 

All  that  evening  Daisy  was  out  of  temper. 


CHAPTER  V 

SHE  COMES  OUT 


DOWNSTAIRS  the  dinner-party  -was  at  its  height.  Mrs. 
Newton,  the  housekeeper,  went  softly  down  the  pas- 
sages to  give  one  last  glimpse  at  the  ballroom.  There  it 
lay,  like  a  great  golden  shell,  empty,  expectant.  The  walls 
were  white,  the  ceilings  gold;  on  the  white  walls  hung  the 
Lelys,  the  Van  Dycks,  and  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room 
Sargent's  portrait  of  Her  Grace,  brought  up,  for  this  espe- 
cial occasion,  from  the  Long  Drawing-room.  There  was  the 
gleaming,  shining  floor,  there  the  golden  chairs  with  their 
backs  against  the  wall,  and  there  before  each  picture  a  little 
globe  of  golden  flame  ministering  to  its  beauties,  throwing 
the  proud  pale  faces  of  the  old  Beaminsters  into  scornful 
relief,  and  none  of  them  so  scornful  as  that  Duchess  in  the 
far  distance,  frowning  from  her  golden  frame. 

Mrs.  Newton  was  plump  and  important.  She  worshipped 
the  Beaminster  family,  and  it  yielded  her  now  intense  satis- 
faction to  see  these  rooms,  that  were  used  so  seldom,  given 
to  their  proper  glory  and  ceremony.  Tor  a  moment  as  she 
stood  there  and  felt  the  fine  reflection  of  all  that  light  upon 
the  shining  floor,  absorbed  the  silence  and  the  space  and  the 
colour,  she  was  uplifted  with  pride,  and  thanked  her  God 
that  she  was  not  as  other  women  were,  but  had  been  per- 
mitted by  Him  to  assist  in  no  small  measure  in  the  glories 
and  splendours  of  this  great  family. 

Then,  with  a  little  sigh  of  satisfied  approval,  she  softly 
walked  away  again. 

n 

Two  hours  later  Rachel  Beaminster,  standing  a  little  be- 
hind her  aunt,  saw  the  people  pressing  up  the  stairs.     To 

69 


SHE  COMES  OUT  67 

tliose  who  watched  her,  she  seemed  perfectly  composed,  her 
flushed  cheeks,  her  white  dress,  her  dark  hair  and  eyes  gave 
her  distinction  against  the  colour  and  movement  of  the  room. 

Her  eyes  were  a  little  stem,  and  her  body  was  held  proudly, 
but  her  hands  moved  with  sharp  spasmodic  movements  against 
her  dress. 

As  she  stood  there  men  were  brought  up  to  her  in  constant, 
succession  and  introduced.  They  wrote  their  names  on  her 
programme,  bowed  and  went  away.  She  smiled  at  each  one 
of  them.  Before  dinner  she  had  been  introduced  to  the 
Prince  —  German,  fat  and  cheerful  —  and  the  second  dance 
of  the  evening  was  to  be  with  him.  Some  of  the  men  who 
had  been  dining  in  the  house  she  already  knew  —  Lord  Crew- 
ner,  Roddy  Seddon,  Lord  Massiter,  and  others  —  and  once 
or  twice  now  the  faces  that  were  led  up  to  her  were  familiar 
to  her. 

The  great  ballroom  seemed  to  be  already  filled  with  people, 
and  still  they  came  pressing  up  the  stairs. 

Rachel  was  miserably  unhappy.  For  one  moment  before 
she  had  left  her  room,  where  her  maid  had  stood  admiringly 
beside  her,  when  she  herself  had  seen  the  reflection  of  the 
white  dress  and  the  dark  hair  and  the  flushed  cheeks  in  the 
long  mirror,  for  one  great  moment  she  had  been  filled  with 
exaltation.  This  ball,  this  agitation,  this  excitement  was  all 
for  her.  The  world  was  at  her  feet.  The  locked  doors  wer^ 
at  last  rolling  open  before  her  and  all  life  was  to  be  revealed, 

Pearls  that  Uncle  John  had  given  her  were  her  only  orna' 
ment.  They  laughed  at  her  from  the  mirror,  laughed  and 
promised  her  success,  conquest,  glory.  Life  at  that  instant 
was  very  precious. 

But,  alas !  the  dinner  had  been  a  terrible  failure.  She  had 
sat  between  Lord  Crewner  and  Lord  Massiter,  and  had  no 
word  to  say  to  either  of  them.  Lord  Massiter  was  middle- 
aged  and  hearty  and  kind,  and  he  had  done  his  best  for  her, 
but  she  had  been  paralysed.  They  had  talked  to  her  about 
the  opera,  the  theatres,  hunting,  books,  Munich ;  she  had  had 


588  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

a  great  deal  to  say  about  all  these  things,  and  she  had  said 
nothing.  Always  within  her  there  seemed  to  be  rivalry  be- 
tween the  Beaminster  way  of  saying  things  and  the  other  way. 
When  Lord  Crewner  said  to  her,  "  What  I  like  in  music  is  a 
real  cheerful  little  piece  that  one  can  go  to  after  dinner,  you 
know,"  there  were  a  whole  number  of  Beaminster  observa- 
tions to  mak&  But  as  soon  as  they  rose  to  her  mouth  some- 
thing within  her  whispered,  "  You  know  that  you  don't  mean 
that.  That's  at  second  hand.  Give  him  your  opinion." 
And  then  that  seemed  presumption,  so  she  said  nothing. 

It  was  all  wretched  and  quite  endless.  Uncle  John  sent 
her  encouraging  smiles  every  now  and  again,  but  she  felt 
that  he  must  be  disappointed  at  her  failure.  The  food  choked 
her.  The  tears  filled  her  eyes  and  it  was  her  pride  only  that 
saved  her.  Through  it  all  she  felt  that  her  grandmother  up- 
stairs in  her  bedroom  was  planning  this. 

Afterwards  the  Princess,  seeing  perhaps  that  she  was  un- 
happy, was  kind  and  motherly  to  her,  and  told  her  funny 
stories  about  her  childhood  in  Berlin.  But  all  the  time 
Eachel  was  saying  to  herself,  "  You're  a  fooL  You're  a  fool. 
You've  got  no  self-control  at  all." 

She  had  been  dreading  the  introduction*  to  so  many  young 
men,  but  she  found  that  that  was  easy  enough.  They  were 
not  young  men ;  they  were  simply  numbers  on  her  programme 
and  they  vanished  as  soon  as  they  came. 

Then  the  band  in  the  distance  began  to  play  an  extra, 
whilst  the  young  men  wandered  about  and  discovered  their 
friends,  and  the  sound  of  the  music  cheered  her.  It  amused 
her  now  to  watch  the  people  as  they  mounted  the  stairs. 
She  noticed  that  all  the  faces  were  grave  and  preoccupied 
until  a  moment  before  the  arrival  at  Aunt  Adela,  and  then  a 
smile  was  tightly  fastened  on,  held  for  a  moment,  and  then 
dropped  to  give  way  to  the  preoccupation  again. 

The  room  was  so  full  now  that  it  seemed  that  it  would  be 
quite  impossible  for  any  dancing  to  take  place.  Uncle  John 
was  working  very  hard  at  introducing  people  to  one  anotherj 


SHE  COMES  OUT  69 

and  as  slie  saw  his  good-natured  face  and  his  white  hair  her 
heart  went  out  to  him.  If  everyone  were  as  kind  as  Uncle 
John  how  nice  the  world  would  be!  Meanwhile  her  eyes 
anxiously  watched  the  stairs,  and  as  every  woman  turned  the 
corner  at  the  bottom  the  question  was  — "  Was  this  May 
Eversley  ? " 

There  had  been  a  battle  about  May.  Aunt  Adela  did  not 
like  her,  disapproved  of  her,  would  not  hear  of  inviting  her. 
Very  well,  then,  Kachel  would  not  come  to  the  ball  at  all. 
They  could  give  the  ball  for  somebody  else.  If  May  were  not 
asked  Rachel  would  not  come. 

So  Lady  Eversley  and  May  had  both  been  asked,  and  of 
course  they  had  accepted. 

Rachel  waited  and  gazed  and  was  continually  disappointed. 
The  extra  was  over  and  soon  the  first  dance  would  begin; 
with  the  second  dance  would  arrive  the  Prince  and  Rachel 
would  have  no  talk  with  May  at  all.  It  was  too  bad  of  May 
to  be  late.  She  had  promised  so  faithfully  —  Ah !  there  she 
was  with  her  air  of  one  confidently  conducting  a  most  diflS- 
cult  campaign.  She  mounted  the  stairs  like  a  general,  gave 
Lady  Adela  the  tiniest  of  smiles,  and  was  at  Rachel's  side. 

That  clasp  of  May's  hand  filled  Rachel's  body  with  confi- 
dent happiness.  May's  hardy  self-control,  her  discipline  de- 
rived from  some  stem  old  Puritans,  dim  centuries  away,  was 
all  waiting  there  at  Rachel's  service. 

"  How  late  you  are !  " 

"  Mother  was  such  a  time.  And  then  we  couldn't  get  a 
cab.     How  are  you,  Rachel  ?  " 

"  Dinner  was  terrible  —  all  wrong.  I  hadn't  a  word  to 
say  to  anyone.     I'm  better  now  that  you've  come." 

"  Is  the  Prince  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I'm  dancing  the  next  dance  with  him.  The  Prin- 
cess was  very  kind  after  dinner.  Oh!  May,  dinner  was  a 
'disaster,  an  absolute  disaster !  " 

"  Not  nearly  so  bad  as  you  thought,  you  may  be  sure. 
TVings  always  seem  so  much  worse." 


ro  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

And  now  May  had  been  discovered.  Gentlemen  young 
and  old  dangled  their  programmes  in  front  of  her,  were  re- 
ceived, were  dismissed.  May  had  the  air  of  a  general,  sitting 
fiercely  in  his  tent  and  receiving  reports  from  his  officers  as 
to  the  progress  in  the  field.  Confident  young  men  were  in- 
stantly timid  before  her. 

The  first  dance  was  over.  Against  the  white  splendour 
vivid  colours  were  flung  and  withdrawn.  Threads  and  pat- 
terns crossed  and  recrossed,  and  then  presently  the  glittering 
floor  was  waste  and  deserted;  on  its  surface  was  reflected 
dark  gold  from  the  shining  walls. 

The  second  dance  came,  and  with  it  the  Prince.  Eachel 
had  now  lost  all  sense  of  the  ball  having  been  given  in  any 
way  for  herself.  The  dancing,  it  comforted  her  to  see,  waa 
not  of  the  very  best,  and  at  once  she  found  that  she  had 
herself  nothing  to  fear.  The  Prince  danced  well,  and  soon 
she  was  lost  to  all  sense  of  everything  save  the  immediate  joy 
of  rhythm  and  balance,  and  the  perfect  spontaneity  of  the 
music  and  her  body's  acknowledgment  of  it. 

When  it  came  to  an  end,  and  they  were  sitting  in  a  comer, 
somewhere,  he  was  a  fat  middle-aged  man  again,  and  she 
Rachel  Beaminster,  but  she  knew  now  for  what  life  was 
intended. 

After  that,  for  a  long  period,  her  dancers  did  not  concern 
her.  They  were  there  simply  to  supply  her  with  that  ecstasy 
of  rhythm  and  movement.  Sometimes  they  could  not  supply 
her  because  they  were  bad  dancers,  and  one  of  her  partners 
was  indeed  so  bad  that  she  ruthlessly  suggested,  after  one 
turn  round  the  room,  that  they  should  sit  out.  Then  she  sat 
in  a  room  near  at  hand,  irritated  by  the  sound  of  that  glorious 
music,  and  paying  very  scant  attention  to  the  young  man's 
stammered  apologies,  his  information  about  his  experiences 
of  Paris  and  the  way  that  he  shot  birds  in  Scotland. 

She  was  to  go  down  to  supper  with  Poddy  Seddon,  and  she 
was  awaiting  that  experience  with  some  curiosity.  If  her 
qp-andmother  were  so  fond  of  him,  then  he  must  be  a  dis* 


SHE  COMES  OUT  Ti 

agreeable  young  man,  and  yet  his  appearance  was  not  dis- 
agreeable. 

He  looked  as  thougb,  like  Uncle  John  and  Dr.  Chris,  he 
"were  one  of  the  comfortable  people.  Dr.  Chris,  by  the  way, 
had  not  arrived.  He  had  told  her  that  he  might  not  be  able 
to  escape  until  late  hours. 

And  so,  as  the  evening  advanced,  her  happiness  grew ;  im- 
possible now  to  understand  that  speechlessness  at  dinner, 
impossible  to  find  reasons  for  that  earlier  misery.  She 
danced  now  both  with  Lord  Massiter  and  with  Lord  Crewner, 
and  said  exactly  what  she  thought  to  both  of  them ;  impossible 
now  to  imagine  anything  but  that  the  world  was  an  enchant- 
ing, thrilling  place  especially  invented  for  the  happiness  of 
Miss  Eachel  Beaminster. 

in 

Uncle  John  had  been  promised  a  dance;  his  moment  ar- 
rived. He  had  watched  her  during  the  early  part  of  the 
evening,  and  had  been  afraid  that  she  was  not  at  all  happy. 

She  was  so  unlike  other  girls,  and  that  first  miserable  hour 
seemed  to  him  the  most  tragic  omen  of  her  future  career. 

"  How  is  she  ever  to  get  on  if  she  takes  things  as  badly  as 
this  ?  I  wish  I  could  help  her.  I  know  so  exactly  how  she 
must  be  feeling." 

But  imagine  him  now  confronted  vidth  a  figure  that  shone 
with  happiness,  with  success,  with  splendour ! 

She  caught  his  arm  — "  Come,  Uncle  John,  we  won't  dance. 
[We'll  talk.     Up  here  —  There's  no  one  in  this  room." 

She  ran  ahead  of  him,  found  a  comer  for  them  both,  and 
then,  pushing  him  on  to  a  sofa,  twisted  round  in  front  of  him, 
turning  on  her  toes,  flashing  laughter  at  him,  sitting  down  at 
last  beside  him,  and  then  kissing  him. 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  I'm  so  glad,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  you 
were  miserable." 

"  So  I  was  —  at  first  —  perfectly  wretched.  Now  it's  all 
splendid  —  glorious !  " 


12  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

This  was  to  him  an  entirely  new  Kachel.  In  her  move- 
ment, her  excitement,  her  immediate  glad  acceptance  of  the 
life  that  an  hour  ago  she  had  feared  with  such  alarm,  he 
perceived  an  element  that  was  indeed  foreign  to  all  things 
Beaminster.  And  this  new  attitude  reminded  him  with 
renewed  sharpnese  that  he  could  not  now  hope  to  hold  the  old 
Rachel  with  the  intimate  affection  that  had  been  his  before. 
She  was  slipping  from  him  —  slipping  ,  .  .  even  as  he 
watched  her,  she  was  going. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm :  "  Uncle  John,  I'm  a 
success!  I  am  really.  I  can  dance,  dance  beautifully!  I 
can  put  these  young  men  in  their  places.  They're  frightened  I 
.  .  .  really  frightened." 

"  Of  course  —  you're  lovely  —  the  biggest  success  there's 
ever  been.     But  what  was  the  matter  with  you  at  dinner  ?  " 

"Yes.  Wasn't  that  dreadful?  Everything  went  wrong, 
and  the  only  thing  I  could  think  of  was  how  glad  grand- 
mamma would  be.     I  had  a  kind  of  paralysis." 

Uncle  John  nodded  his  head.  "  I  know  exactly  what  it's 
like." 

"  Well,  I  shall  never  let  myself  be  so  stupid  again  — 
never !  I  swear  it !  "  They  sat  in  silence  for  some  time,  she, 
restless,  straining  towards  the  music,  he  a  little  overcome  by 
her  happiness. 

There  was  a  pause  between  the  dances  and  then  the  band 
began  once  more. 

"  Have  you  danced  with  Roddy  Seddon  yet  ?  " 

"No.     What's  he  like?" 

"  Oh !  he's  nice  —  you'll  like  him." 

"  I  don't  expect  to.  He's  a  friend  of  grandmamma's. 
Hark !     There's  the  band  again !  .  .  .  Come  along,  back  we 

go!" 

Smiling,  radiant,  she  hung  upon  his  arm.  Afterwards, 
standing  in  a  doorway,  he  watched  her. 

He  sighed.  "  What  a  selfish  old  pig  I  am  I  .  .  .  But  she'll 
never  be  mine  again." 


SHE  COMES  OUT  IS 


IV 


Uncle  John  held  only  for  a  moment  Rachel's  attention. 
iN"©  single  person  now,  but  rather  a  gorgeous  pattern  that 
the  whole  evening  was  weaving  about  her.  She  saw  the 
lights,  she  heard  the  music,  she  felt  the  movement  of  her 
body,  she  gathered  through  a  haze  of  happiness  the  faces  of 
her  uncles  and  Aunt  Adela  and  others  whom  she  knew,  but 
now  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  knew  what  happiness, 
happiness  without  thought,  or  doubt,  or  foreboding  could  be. 

Thus  it  was  that  she  came  to  Roddy  Seddon,  who  was 
certainly  enjoying  himself:  this,  however,  was  not  the  first 
ball  of  his  life  nor  even,  if  all  the  truth  were  known,  his  best. 
He  had  expected  it  to  be  solemn  and  sedate  —  you  could  not 
hope  to  find  here  the  jolly  kind  of  dance  that  they  had  had 
at  the  Menets',  for  instance,  last  week;  that  would  not  be 
possible  in  a  Beaminster  household. 

It  was  all,  to  be  honest,  a  little  old-fashioned.  Things  were 
moving  a  bit  faster  nowadays.  Waltzes  and  Lancers  were  all 
very  well,  but  one  might  have  had  a  cotillon,  something  un- 
expected !  However,  May  Eversley  and  one  or  two  other  girls 
had  had  the  right  kind  of  go  about  them.  He  smiled  a  little 
and  tugged  at  his  short  bristling  yellow  moustache,  and  then 
discovered  that  it  was  time  to  take  Rachel  Beaminster  down 
to  supper. 

This  event  was  of  more  than  ordinary  interest  to  him.  He 
was  perfectly  aware  that  most  of  his  friends  and  relatives 
thought  that  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  him  to  marry 
Rachel  Beaminster.  He  was,  himself,  not  scornful  of  this 
idea. 

He  was  thirty-two,  and  it  was  time  that  Seddon  Court  in 
Sussex  had  a  mistress ;  his  life  had  been  varied  and  exciting 
and  it  was  right  now  that  he  should  make  some  ties.  There 
were  a  number  of  other  reasons  in  favour  of  his  marrying. 

As  to  Rachel  Beaminster,  she  was  not  pretty,  but  she  was 
interesting.     She  was  unusual;  moreover  she  was  a  Bea- 


fr4  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

minster,  and  an  alliance  with  that  ancient  family  would  lie, 
past  dispute,  a  magnificent  alliance.  But  the  element  in  it  all 
that  intrigued  him  most  was  the  fact  that  nobody  could  tell 
him  anything  about  Rachel,  even  May  Eversley  who  knew  her 
so  well  was  not  sure  about  her.  "  You'll  go  on  being  sur- 
prised," she  had  said. 

Surprise,  indeed,  was  waiting  for  him  this  evening.  On 
the  few  occasions  that  he  had  seen  Rachel  he  had  seen  her 
grave,  shy,  a  little  awkward,  most  reserved.  Now  she  met 
him  as  though  she  had  known  him  for  years,  glowing,  almost 
pretty,  so  burning  were  her  eyes.  At  supper  she  laughed, 
called  across  the  room  to  May,  agreed  with  everything  that 
everybody  said,  and  with  it  all  was  younger  than  any  girl 
that  he  had  ever  known.  The  girls  who  were  Roddy's  friends 
talked  about  life  at  times  more  boldly  than  he  would  have 
talked  with  his  men  friends,  and  were,  at  all  events,  for  ever 
hinting  at  the  things  that  they  knew. 

Rachel  hinted  at  nothing;  she  kept  nothing  back,  she 
allowed  him  no  disguises. 

"  Oh !  don't  I  wish,"  she  cried,  "  that  this  night  could  go 
on  for  ever  just  like  this  " —  and  he,  taking  the  compliment  to 
himself,  agreed  with  her.  He  had  expected  to  find  someone 
haughty  and  cold,  a  young  Aunt  Adela  with  a  dash  of  foreign 
temper. 

He  found  someone  entirely  delightful.  Afterwards,  when 
they  sat  out  on  a  balcony  overlooking  Portland  Place,  he  was 
encouraged  to  talk  about  himself. 

"  I  like  all  this,  you  know,"  he  said,  waving  his  hand  at 
the  grey  mysterious  street  that  the  pale  lamps  so  mournfully 
guarded.  "  I  like  this  air  comin'  along  from  the  park.  I'm 
all  for  the  open.  Miss  Beaminster  —  horses  and  dogs  and 
tushin'  along  with  the  wind  at  your  back.  It's  a  rippin'  little 
place  I've  got  down  in  Sussex.  I  hope  you'll  see  it  one  day 
—  old  as  anything,  with  jolly  Roman  roads  and  such  hangin' 
around,  and  the  most  spifiin'  lot  of  gees.  Look,  the  sun  will 
he  gettiu'  above  the  houses  soon.     I've  seen  some  sunrises  ia 


SHE  COMES  OUT  75 

my  day.  You  ought  to  be  on  the  Downs  at  night,  Miss  Bea- 
minster." 

Roddy  was  surprised  at  himself  at  tJie  way  that  he  was 
talking,  but  she  really  looked  quite  beautiful  there  in  the 
window  with  her  dark  hair  and  her  eyes  and  white  dress. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  she  said,  when  it  was  time  for  them  to 
part,  "  how  much  all  you  say  interests  me.  I  love  horses 
too,  and  I  adore  dogs " 

"  I've  got  a  dog  I'd  like  you  to  have,"  he  b^an.  "  It's 
a " 

"  Oh  no,"  she  answered.  "  Aunt  Adela  would  never  let 
me  keep  one  here.  Thank  you  all  the  same.  But  you'll  let 
me  come  down  to  Seddon  Court  one  day,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Let  you !  "     Roddy  could  find  no  words. 

She  flung  one  glance  at  the  square,  where  the  dawr  was 
beginning,  and  then  was  back  in  the  ballroom  again^  dancing, 
dancing,  dancing.  .  .  . 

The  sky  was  all  pink  above  the  roofs,  and  the  birds  were 
making  a  whirl  of  chattering,  when  her  bedroom  received 
her  again. 

Her  maid  was  sleepy  but  proud. 

"  They  all  say  it's  been  a  great  success.  Miss  Rachel." 

"  Success !  "  She  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  with  her  arms  extended.  "  Oh !  It's  been  glorious, 
glorious.     I've  never " 

She  paused.  Her  arms  fell  to  her  sides  — "  Oh !  Dr. 
Chris!  Dr.  Chris!  He  never  came  —  he  said  that  he 
mightn't  be  able.  It  was  the  only  thing  that  was  wrong  " — 
Then  more  slowly,  as  she  moved  to  her  dressing-table  — "  And 
all  the  last  part  I  never  missed  him." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say,"  said  Lucy,  standing  behind  Rachel's 
chair  and  staring  at  the  white  face  in  the  mirror,  "  that  with 
his  patients  and  the  rest  he  couldn't  get  away " 

"  Oh !  But  I  ought  to  have  missed  him,"  said  Rachel,  and 
afterwards,  lying  in  bed,  sleepless  with  excitement,  it  was 
Dr.  Christopher's  face  that  she  saw. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FANS 

"  n  est  doux  de  sommeiller  a  I'ombre  ehaude,  sur  le  tifede  oreiller  d'un 
jnal  6picurisme  et  d'une  intelligence  ironique,  trfes  simple,  assez 
curieuse,  et  prodigieusement  indifferente,  au  fond." 

ROMAIN   ROIXANIX 


ON  the  afternoon  that  followed  the  ball  Ladj  Adela 
took  Rachel  to  tea  with  Lord  Richard. 

It  was  a  superb  May  afternoon;  white  clouds,  bolster- 
shaped,  were  piled  in  the  heavens  and  made,  so  rounded  were 
they,  the  blue  sky  seem  an  infinite  distance  away.  It  was  a 
day  of  sparkling  dazzling  gaiety  —  the  air  seemed  electric 
with  the  happiness  of  the  world,  and,  as  they  drove  down  to 
Grosvenor  Street,  Rachel  felt  that  the  little  breeze  that  just 
touched  the  hats  and  coats  of  the  people  on  the  omnibusea 
was  created  simply  by  the  joy  of  the  beautiful  weather. 

As  they  moved  slowly  down  Bond  Street  Rachel  looked  at 
the  world  and  thought  of  last  night.  She  looked  at  the  men 
with  their  shining  hats  and  shining  boots ;  at  the  messenger 
boys  and  the  young  women  with  parcels  and  the  young  women 
without;  at  the  old  men  who  thought  themselves  young  and 
the  young  men  who  thought  themselves  old ;  at  the  fish  shops 
and  the  picture  galleries,  at  the  jewellers'  and  the  book  shops, 
at  the  place  where  they  taught  you  Swedish  exercises  and  the 
place  where  there  was  a  palmist  with  a  Japanese  name,  and  it 
was  all  splendid  and  magnificent  and  simply  carried  on  the 
glories  of  the  night  before.  Before  the  turning  into  Gros- 
venor Street  there  was  a  great  crush  of  carriages  and  a  long 
pause.  In  the  carriage  next  to  Rachel  there  was  a  very  stout, 
very  richly  coloured  lady  with  a  strong  scent  and  a  pug  dog. 

A  little  farther  away  there  were  two  young  gentlemen  in  a 

76 


FANS  m 

smart  little  carriage,  and  their  hats  were  so  large  and  their 
expression  so  haughty  and  the  top  of  their  canes  so  golden  that 
it  seemed  absurd  that  they  should  have  to  wait  for  anybody, 
and  near  them  was  a  small  boy  on  a  little  butcher's  cart  and 
near  him  an  omnibus  with  a  red-faced  driver  and  any 
number  of  interested  ladies,  and  all  these  incongruities  seemed 
only  to  add  to  the  haphazard  happiness  of  this  shining  after- 
noon. 

Eachel  had  many  things  to  consider  as  she  sat  there.  Aunt 
Adela  did  not  interfere  with  her  thoughts,  because  she  never 
talked  when  she  was  in  a  carriage,  but  always  sat  up  and 
looked  wearily  at  the  people  about  her.  She  had  never  very 
much  to  say,  but  the  open  air  made  her  feel  stupid. 

Kachel  was  aware  that  last  night  had  altered  her  point  of 
view  for  all  time.  She  was  aware,  as  she  sat  there  in  sun- 
shine, of  a  new  world.  By  one  glance  at  Aunt  Adela  was  this 
new  world  made  apparent.  Aunt  Adela  had  hitherto  been 
important  —  Aunt  Adela  was  now  imimportant. 

Had  this  afternoon  been  wet  and  gloomy,  then  Eachel  might 
have  doubted  that  passionate  discovery  of  the  world  that  she 
now  felt  was  hers,  but  here  with  this  blazing  sun  and  sky  the 
note  was  sustained.  Surely  never  again  would  Rachel  be 
afraid  of  her  grandmother,  surely  never  again  would  she  bo 
afraid  of  anyone.  Holding  herseK  very  proudly  in  a  dresa 
that  was  a  soft  primrose  colour  and  in  a  hat  that  was  dark 
and  shady,  Rachel  looked  round  about  her  on  the  world. 

"  There's  Lady  Massiter  I  "  Lady  Adela  smiled  lightly 
and  bowed  a  very  little  — "  Monty  Carfax  is  with  her." 

Rachel  thought  of  Lord  Massiter,  and  wondered  again  at 
last  night's  dinner  — "  How  could  I  have  been  like  that  ? 
How  could  I  ?  " 

There  passed  them  a  very  handsome  carriage  with  a  little 
dark  handsome  lady  who  looked  happily  round  about  her, 
all  alone  in  her  magnificence.  Rachel  did  not  know  whether 
her  aunt  had  seen  or  no :  here  was  the  Beaminster  arch-enemy, 
Mrs.  Bronson,  a  young  American  "widow,  incredibly  rich,  in- 


78  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

credibly  fascinating,  incredibly  bold.  Mrs.  Bronson  had 
been  in  London  only  a  year,  had  snapped  her  jewelled  fingers 
at  the  Beaminsters  and  everything  that  they  stood  for,  had 
laughed  at  snubs  and  threats,  was  intending,  so  it  was  said, 
to  have  London  at  her  feet  in  a  season  or  two. 

Rachel  considered  her.  She  was  like  some  jewelled  bird 
of  paradise.  She  was  —  one  must  admit  it  —  better  suited 
to  this  glorious  day  than  was  Aunt  Adela. 

Why  need  Aunt  Adela  refuse  to  be  glad  because  the  sun 
was  shining?  Why  could  not  Aunt  Adela  have  said  some- 
thing pleasant  about  last  night's  dance?  Why  must  this 
absurd  outward  dignity  be  so  carefully  maintained?  Why 
when  one  was  looking  attractive  in  a  primrose  dress  could 
one's  aunt  not  say  so  ? 

That  reminded  her  of  Roddy  Seddon. 

She  liked  him.  He  might  be  a  real  friend  like  Dr,  Chris- 
topher. The  thought  of  him  made  her,  as  she  sat  there  in 
the  sun,  feel  doubly  certain  that  the  world  was  a  comfortable, 
reassuring  place  and  that  that  vision  of  cold  spaces  and  dark 
forests  that  had  been  so  often  with  her  was  now  to  be  banished 
like  an  evil  dream  never  to  return. 

At  the  end  of  Grosvenor  Street  the  trees  were  so  green  that 
they  might  have  been  painted,  and  here  they  were  at  Uncle 
Richard's  house. 

n 

But,  with  the  closing  of  Uncle  Richard's  doors  the  sun  was 
taken  from  the  world.  Uncle  Richard's  house  was  always 
soft  and  dim,  like  one  of  those  little  jewel  cases,  all  wadding 
and  dark  wood.  Uncle  Richard's  carpets  were  so  thick  and 
soft  that  everyone  seemed  to  walk  on  tiptoe,  and  the  wonder- 
ful old  prints  in  the  hall  and  the  beautiful  dark  carving  on 
the  staircase  and  the  sudden  swiftness  of  the  doors  as  they 
closed  behind  you  only  helped  to  increase  the  impression 
that  everything  here,  yourself  included,  was  in  for  a  beautiful 
exhibition,  and  that  light  might  hurt  the  exhibits. 


FANS  7ft 

Uncle  Richard's  study,  where  they  always  had  tea,  was 
lined  from  roof  to  ceiling  with  book-cases,  and  behind  the 
shining  glass  there  gleamed  the  backs  of  the  haughtiest  and 
proudest  books  in  the  world.  For,  were  they  old  and  dingy, 
then  they  were  first  editions  of  transcendent  value,  and  were 
they  new  and  shining,  then  were  they  "  Editions  de  luxe,"  or 
some  of  Uncle  Richard's  favourites  bound  in  the  most  intri- 
cate and  precious  of  bindings. 

Some  china  on  the  mantelpiece  was  so  valuable  that  house- 
maids must  surely  have  a  sleepless  time  because  of  it,  and  all 
the  furniture  was  so  conscious  of  its  rich  and  ancient  glories 
that  to  sit  down  on  the  chairs  or  to  lean  on  the  tables  was  to 
offer  them  terrible  insults. 

Two  Condors  and  a  Corot  shone  from  the  grey  walls. 

In  the  midst  of  this  was  Uncle  Richard,  elaborately, 
ironically  indifferent  to  all  emotions.  "  I  have  governed  the 
country,  yes  —  but  really,  my  friends,  scarcely  a  job  for  a 
fine  spirit  nowadays.  I  have  collected  these  few  things  — 
yes,  but  after  all  what  does  it  come  to  ?  Don't  many  pawn- 
brokers do  the  same  ?  " 

Rachel,  as  she  stood  in  the  room,  felt  that  her  newly  found 
independence  was  slipping  away  from  her.  With  the  depar- 
ture of  the  sun  had  fled  also  that  consciousness  of  last  night's 
splendours.  About  her  again  was  creeping  that  atmosphere 
that  was  always  with  her  in  this  room,  something  that  made 
her  feel  that  she  was  a  vsretched,  ignorant  Beaminster,  and 
that  even  if  she  did  learn  the  value  of  all  these  precious  things, 
why  then  that  knowledge  was  of  little  enough  use  to  her. 

Uncle  Richard  with  his  high  white  forehead,  his  long  dark 
trousers,  his  grey  spats  and  his  great  collar  that  bent  back, 
in  humble  deference,  before  the  nobility  of  his  neck  and  chin, 
Uncle  Richard  required  a  great  deal  of  courage. 

"  Well,  dear,  I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  dance." 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Richard,  thank  you." 

"  I  left  early,  but  everything  seemed  to  be  going  very  welL" 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  was  all  right." 


80  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

How  different  this  from  the  fashion  in  which  she  had  in« 
tended  to  fling  her  enthusiasm  upon  him.  What,  she  won- 
dered, would  have  been  the  effect  had  she  done  so?  How 
would  he  have  taken  it?  Could  she  have  pierced  that  mel- 
ancholy ironical  armour  that  always  kept  the  real  man  from 
her? 

Meanwhile  she  was  now  back  again  in  the  old,  old  world ; 
tea  was  brought,  the  footman  and  butler  moved  softly  about 
the  room.  Aunt  Adela  said  a  little.  Uncle  Richard  said  a 
little  .  .  .  the  lid  was  down  upon  the  world. 

Meanwhile,  impossible  to  imagine  that  only  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  ago  there  had  been  that  gay  confusion  in  Bond  Street, 
impossible  to  believe  Mrs.  Bronson  in  her  carriage  anything 
but  common  and  vulgar,  impossible  to  prefer  that  dazzling 
sun  to  this  cloistered  quiet. 

A  wonderful  lacquered  clock  ticked  the  minutes  away. 
"  I'm  in  a  cage  —  I'm  in  a  cage  —  and  I  want  to  get  out,'* 
someone  in  Rachel  Beaminster  was  crying,  and  someone  else 
replied,  "  Thank  God  that  you  are  allowed  to  be  in  such  a 
cage  at  all.     There's  no  other  cage  so  splendid." 

Her  primrose  gown  was  forgotten;  when  Uncle  Richard 
asked  her  questions  she  answered  "  Yes,"  or  "  No."  Her 
old  terrors  had  returned. 

Upon  the  three  of  them,  sitting  thus,  Roddy  Seddon  was 
announced.  Roddy  had  assaulted  and  conquered  Lord 
Richard  in  as  masterly  a  fashion  as  he  had  subdued  the 
Duchess  and  Lady  Adela.  He  had  done  it  simply  by  present- 
ing so  boisterous  and  honest  an  allegiance  to  the  Beaminster 
standard.  Lord  Richard's  irony  had  been  useless  against 
Roddy's  ingenuous  appeal.  Moreover,  there  was  the 
Duchess's  advocacy  —  young  Seddon  was  the  hope  of  the 
party. 

Roddy  brought  to  view  no  evidence  of  last  night's  energies ; 
he  was  as  fresh,  as  highly  coloured,  as  browned  and  bronzed 
and  clear  as  any  pastoral  shepherd,  his  skin  was  so  finely 
coloured  that  clothes  always  seemed,  with  him,  a  pity.     Lord 


FANS  81 

Richard's  melancholy  cynicism  had  poor  chance  against  such 
rigour. 

His  eyes,  as  they  fastened  upon  Eachel,  brightened.  She 
gave  that  dim  room  such  fresh  pleasure,  sitting  there  in  her 
primrose  frock  with  her  serious  eyes  and  long  hands.  No, 
she  was  not  beautiful;  he  knew  that  his  last  night's  impres- 
sion had  been  the  true  one;  but  she  was  unusual,  she  would 
make,  he  was  sure,  a  most  unusual  companion.  "  You 
wouldn't  think  it,"  May  Eversley  had  said,  "  but  there's  any 
amount  of  fun  in  Eachel  —  you'll  find  it  when  you  know  her." 

He  was  not  sure  but  that  he  saw  it  now,  lurking  in  her  eyes, 
her  mouth,  as  she  sat  there,  so  gravely,  opposite  to  her  uncle 
and  aunt. 

"How  d'ye  do.  Lady  Adela?  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Bea- 
minster  ?  How  are  you,  sir  ?  Thanks  —  I  will  have  some 
tea.  Pretty  gorgeous  day,  ain't  it  ?  Rippin'  dance  of  yours 
last  night.  Lady  Adela." 

Meanwhile,  Rachel  knew  that  she  had  nothing  to  say  to  him. 
Out  there  in  the  sunlight  she  might,  perhaps,  have  maintained 
that  relationship  that  had  been  begun  between  them  the 
night  before,  but  in  here,  with  Aunt  Adela  and  Uncle  Richard 
so  consciously  an  audience,  with  the  air  so  dim  and  the  walls 
so  grey,  Roddy  Seddon  seemed  the  most  strident  of  strangers. 

She  sat,  silently,  whilst  he  talked  to  Aunt  Adela.  "  I've 
never  had  so  toppin'  a  dance  as  last  night  — 'pon  my  soul,  no. 
Young  Milhaven,  whom  I  tumbled  on  at  Brooks's  at  lunch- 
eon, said  the  same.     Band  first-rate,  and  floor  spiffin'." 

"  I'm  glad  you  liked  it,  Roddy,"  said  Lady  Adela,  with  a 
dry  little  smile.  "  I  must  confess  to  being  glad  that  it's 
over." 

Roddy  glanced  a  little  shyly  at  Rachel.  "  I  suppose  you're 
goin'  hard  at  it  now,  Miss  Beaminster  ?  " 

She  looked  across  the  tea-table  at  him.  "  There's  Lady 
Grode's  and  Lady  Massiter's,  and  Lady  Carloes  is  giving  one 
for  her  niece " 

"  The  Massiter  thing  ought  to  be  a  good  one.     Always  do 


82  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

it  well,"  said  Roddj.     "  'Pon  my  word,  on  a  day  like  this 
it  makes  one  hot  to  think  of  dancing." 

He  was  perplexed.  He  had  instantly  perceived  that  he 
had  here  a  Kachel  Beaminster  very  different  from  last  night's 
heroine.  She  was  now  beyond  all  contemplated  intimacy. 
He  had  heard  others  speak  of  that  aloofness  that  came  like  a 
doud  about  her.     He  now  saw  it  for  himself. 

After  a  time  he  came  across  to  her  whilst  Lady  Adela  and 
her  brother  talked  as  though  the  world  consisted  of  one  Bea- 
minster railed  round  by  high  palings  over  which  a  host  of 
foolish  people  were  trying  to  climb. 

He  stood  beside  her  smiling  in  that  slightly  embarrassed 
manner  of  his,  a  manner  that  caused  those  who  did  not  know 
him  to  say  that  they  liked  Roddy  Seddon  because  he  was  so 
modest. 

"  Such  a  day  it  seems  a  shame  to  be  in  town." 

"  Yes  —  isn't  it  lovely  ?  " 

"  The  opera's  pretty  hot  in  the  evenin'  just  now.  Have 
you  been  yet  ?  " 

"  I've  been  in  Munich  often.     I've  never  been  here." 

"  My  word !  Haven't  you  really  ?  Wish  I  could  say  the 
eame.     I'm  always  bein'  dragged " 

"  Why  do  you  go  if  you  don't  care  about  it  ?  " 

"  Can't  think  —  always  askin'  myself.  Why  do  half  the 
Johnnies  go  ?     And  yet  in  a  way  I  like  some  sorts  o'  music." 

''FTia^  kind  of  music?" 

*'  Sittin'  in  the  dark,  in  a  room,  with  someone  just  strokin' 
the  piano  up  and  down  —  just  strokin'  it  —  not  hammerin'  it. 
I  don't  care  what  the  old  tune  is " 

Rachel  laughed  a  little,  but  said  nothing.  Of  course,  she 
thought  him  the  most  thundering  kind  of  fool,  and  this  made 
him  eager  to  display  to  her  his  wisdom  and  common  sense. 

But  he  could  say  nothing.  There  followed  the  most  awk- 
ward silence.  She  did  not  try  to  help  him,  but  sat  there 
quietly  looking  in  front  of  her. 

Suddenly  she  said :     "  Uncle  Richard,  I  want  to  see  your 


FAiTS  83 

fans  again.  I  haven't  seen  them  for  a  long  time.  I  know 
you've  added  some  lately.  Sir  Roderick,  have  you  ever  seen 
my  uncle's  fans  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  I'd  be  delighted " 

Lord  Eichard's  eyes  lifted.  The  lines  of  his  mouth  grew 
softer. 

Eachel  watched  him.  "  "Now  he'll  pretend,"  she  said, 
"  that  he  doesn't  cara  He'll  pretend  that  they're  nothing  to 
him  at  all." 

He  went,  in  his  solemn  guarded  manner,  to  a  place  in  the 
room  where  a  large  cabinet  was  let  into  the  wall.  He  drew 
this  cabinet  forward,  and  then,  out  of  it,  moving  his  hands 
almost  pontifically,  he  pulled  trays,  and  on  these  trays  lay 
the  fans. 

The  others  had  gathered  around  him.  There  were  nearly 
five  hundred  fans  —  fans  Dutch  and  Italian  and  French  and 
Chinese  and  Japanese ;  fans  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries,  of  the  eighteenth  and  of  the  Empire  —  modem 
Japanese  heavy  with  iron  spokes,  others  light  as  gossamer, 
with  spokes  of  ivory  or  tortoise  shell.  There  were  French 
fans,  painted  only  on  one  side,  with  pictures  of  fantastic 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses;  there  were  Chinese  fans  with 
bridges  and  mandarins  and  towers ;  Empire  fans  perforated 
with  tinsel  and  such  lovely  shades  of  colour  that  they  seemed 
to  change  as  one  gazed. 

There  they  all  lay  in  that  rich  solemn  room,  quietly, 
proudly  conscious  of  their  beauty,  needing  no  word  of  praise, 
catching  all  the  colour  and  the  daintiness  and  fragrance  that 
had  ever  been  in  the  world. 

Rachel  drank  in  their  splendour  and  then  looked  about  her. 

Uncle  Richard's  eyes  were  flaming  and  his  hands  trembling 
against  the  case. 

Then  she  looked  at  Roddy  Seddon.  His  head  was  flung 
back ;  with  eyes  and  mouth,  with  every  vein  and  fibre  of  hid 
body  he  was  drinking  in  their  glory. 

His  eyes  were  suddenly  caught  away.     He  was  staring  at 


84  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

her  before  she  looked  away  —  Her  eyes  said  to  him,  "  Why ! 
Do  you  care  like  that  ?    Do  those  things  mean  that  to  you  ?  " 

She  smiled  across  at  him.  They  were  in  communion  again 
as  they  had  been  last  night. 

He  was  surprised  that  he  should  be  so  glad. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  HOUSE 

'Our  interest's  on  the  dangerous  edge  of  things 
The  honest  thief,  the  tender  murderer. 
The  superstitious  atheist,  demirep, 
That  loves  and  saves  her  soul  in  new  French  books  — 
We  watch  while  these  in  equilibrium  keep 
The  giddy  line  midway:  one  step  aside. 

They're  classed  and  done  with.     I,  then,  keep  the  line  —  ** 

Bishop  Blougbam's  Apology. 


THE  Duchess  couid  but  dimly  guess  at  the  splendour  of 
that  fine  May  afternoon. 

It  had  been  her  complaint  lately  that  she  was  always 
cold  and  now  the  blinds  and  curtains  were  closely  drawn  and  a 
huge  fire  was  blazing.  Her  chair  was  close  to  the  flame :  she 
sat  there  looking,  in  the  fierce  light,  small  and  shrivelled ;  she 
was  reading  intently  and  made  no  movement  except  now  and 
again  when  she  turned  a  page.  Dorchester  was  the  only 
other  person  there  and  she  sat  a  little  in  the  shadow,  busily 
sewing. 

Erom  where  she  sat  she  could  see  her  mistress's  face,  and 
behind  her  carved  chair  there  were  the  blue  china  dragons 
and  the  deep  heavy  red  curtains  and  a  black  oak  table  covered 
with  little  golden  trays  and  glass  jars  and  silver  boxes. 

!N'either  heat  nor  cold  nor  youth  nor  age  had  any  effect  upon 
Dorchester.  !N^o  one  knew  how  old  she  was,  nor  how  long  she 
had  been  with  her  mistress,  nor  her  opinions  or  sentiments 
concerning  anything  in  the  world. 

She  was  tall  and  gaunt  and  snapped  her  words  as  she  might 
snap  a  piece  of  thread. 

Erom  Mrs.  ifTewton  and  !Norris  downwards  the  servants 

were  afraid  of  her.     She  made  a  confidant  of  no  one,  was 

supposed  to  have  no  emotions  of  any  kind,  absurd  and  fan- 

85 


86  THE  DTTCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

tastic  stories  were  told  of  her ;  she  was  certainly  not  popular 
in  tho  servants*  hall  and  yet  at  a  word  from  her  anything 
that  she  requested  was  done. 

With  Miss  Rand  only  was  it  understood  that  she  had  a 
certain  friendly  relationship ;  it  was  said  that  she  liked  Miss 
Rand. 

Dorchester  had  witnessed  the  whole  of  the  Duchess's  career. 

As  she  sat  now  in  the  shadow  every  now  and  again  she 
looked  up  and  glanced  at  that  sharp  white  face  and  those  thin 
hands.  What  a  little  body  it  was  to  have  done  so  much,  to 
have  battled  its  way  through  such  a  career,  to  have  fought  and 
to  have  won  so  many  conflicts !  It  seemed  to  Dorchester  only 
yesterday  that  splendid  time,  when  the  Duchess  had  been 
queen  of  London.  Dorchester  also  had  been  young  then  and 
had  had  an  energy  as  enduring,  a  will  as  finely  tempered  as 
had  her  mistress. 

What  a  character  it  had  been  then  with  its  furies  and  its 
disciplines,  its  indulgences  and  its  amazing  restrictions,  its 
sympathies  and  cold  clodded  cruelties,  its  tremendous  sense 
of  the  dramatic  moment  so  that  again  and  again  a  position 
that  had  been  nearly  surrendered  was  held  and  saved.  She 
had  never  been  beautiful,  always  little  and  sharp  and  some- 
times even  wizened.  But  she  gained  her  effects  one  way  or 
another  and  beat  beautiful  and  wise  and  wonderful  women  off 
the  field. 

And  then  sweeping  down  upon  her  had  come  disease.  At 
first  it  had  been  fought  and  magnificently  fought.  But  it 
was  the  horror  of  its  unexpected  ravages  that  had  been  so 
difficult  to  combat.  She  had  never  known  when  the  pain 
would  be  upon  her  —  it  might  seize  her  at  any  public  moment 
and  her  retreat  be  compelled  before  the  whole  world.  There 
had  been  doctors  and  doctors  and  doctors,  and  then  opera- 
tion after  operation,  but  no  one  had  done  any  good  until 
Dr.  Christopher  had  come  to  her,  and  now,  for  years,  he  had 
been  keeping  her  alive. 

Out  of  that  very  necessity  of  disease,  however,  had  she 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  HOUSE  87 

dragged  her  drama.  She  had  retired  from  the  world,  not  as 
an  old  woman  heaten  by  pain,  but  as  a  priestess  might  with- 
draw within  her  sanctuary  or  some  great  queen  demand  her 
privacy. 

And  it  had  its  effect.  Very,  very  carefully  were  chosen  to 
see  her  only  those  who  might  convey  to  the  world  the  right 
impression.  The  world  was  given  to  understand  that  the 
Duchess  was  now  more  wonderful  than  she  had  ever  been,  and 
it  was  so  long  since  the  world  at  large  had  seen  her  that 
every  sort  of  story  was  abroad. 

Certain  old  ladies  like  Lady  Carloes  who  played  bridge  with 
her  gained  most  of  their  public  importance  from  their  in- 
timacy with  her.  It  was  rumoured  that  at  any  moment  she 
might  return  and  take  her  place  again  in  the  world,  old  though 
she  was. 

All  this  was  known  to  Dorchester  and  she  smiled  grimly 
as  she  thought  of  it.  The  real  Duchess !  Perhaps  she  and 
Dr.  Christopher  alone  in  all  the  world  knew  the  intricacies, 
the  inconsistencies  of  that  amazing  figure.  From  the  moment 
that  illness  had  come  every  peculiarity  had  grown.  Her  self- 
indulgences,  her  temper,  her  pride,  her  egotism  —  now  knew, 
in  private,  no  restraint.  And  yet  when  her  friends  were  there 
or  anyone  at  all  from  the  outside  world  she  displayed  the  old 
dignity,  the  old  grand  air,  the  old  imperious  quiet  that  be- 
longed to  no  one  else  alive. 

But  what,  during  these  last  years.  Lady  Adela  had  suffered ! 
Dorchester  herself  had  had  many  moments  when  it  had 
seemed  that  she  had  more  to  control  than  her  strength  could 
maintain,  but  long  custom,  an  entire  absence  of  the  nervous 
system,  and  a  comforting  sense  that  she  was,  after  all,  paid 
well  for  her  trouble,  sustained  her  endurance. 

But  Lady  Adela  had  nothing. 

The  Duchess  had  always  hated  her  children,  but  had  used 
them,  magnificently,  for  her  purposes.  They  had  all  been 
fools,  but  they  were  just  the  kind  of  fools  that  the  Beaminster 
tradition  demanded. 


88  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Lady  Adela  had  from  the  first  been  more  of  a  fool  than  the 
others.  She  had  never  had  the  gift  of  words  and  before  her 
mother  was,  as  a  rule,  speechless,  and  it  had  been  only  by 
her  changing  colour  that  an  onlooker  could  have  told  that  her 
mother's  furies  moved  her. 

Often  Dorchester  had  attempted  interference,  but  had 
found  at  last  that  it  was  better  to  allow  the  fury  to  spend  its 
force.  Then  also  Dorchester  had  noticed  a  curious  thing. 
The  Duke,  Lord  Eichard,  Lord  John,  Lady  Adela  were  proud 
of  these  prides  and  tempers.  They  were  proud  of  everything 
that  their  mother  did;  they  might  suffer,  their  backs  might 
wince  under  the  blows,  but  it  was  part  of  the  tradition  that 
their  mother  should  thus  behave. 

Dorchester  fancied  that  sometimes  there  was  flashed  upon 
them  a  sudden  suspicion  that  their  mother  was  in  these  days 
only  an  old,  ailing,  broken  woman  —  no  great  figure  now,  no 
magnificent  tyrant,  no  mysterious  queen  of  society.  And 
then  Dorchester  fancied  that  she  had  noticed  that  when  such 
a  suspicion  had  come  upon  them  they  had  put  it  hastily 
aside  and  locked  it  up  and  abused  themselves  for  such  base- 
ness. 

Curious  people,  these  Beaminsters ! 

Well,  it  was  no  business  of  hers.  And,  perhaps,  after  all 
she  had  herself  some  touch  of  that  feeling,  some  fierce  im- 
patient pride  in  those  very  tempests  and  rebellion.  After  all, 
was  there  anyone  in  the  world  like  this  mistress  of  hers  ?  Was 
there  another  woman  who  would  bear  so  bravely  the  pain  that 
ehe  bore  ?  And  was  not  that  fierce  clutch  on  life,  that  energy 
with  which  she  tried  still  to  play  her  part  in  the  great  game, 
grand  in  its  own  fashion  ? 

Would  not  Dorchester  also  fight  when  her  time  came  ? 

She  looked  across  the  firelight  at  her  mistress.  When 
would  arrive  the  inevitable  moment  of  surrender  ?  How  im- 
minent that  moment  when  in  the  eyes  of  all  those  about  her 
the  old  woman  would  see  that  all  that  was  now  hers  was  a 
guiet  abandonment  to  death ! 


IN  THE  HEAKT  OF  THE  HOUSE     89 

Well,  there  would  be  some  fine,  savage  struggling  when  that 
crisis  struck  into  their  midst.  Dorchester  smiled  grimly,  and 
then,  in  spite  of  herself,  sighed  a  little. 

They  were  all  growing  old  together. 

II 

At  five  o'clock  came  Dr.  Christopher,  and  Dorchester 
moved  into  the  other  room  and  left  the  two  together.  With 
his  large  limbs  and  cheerful  smile  he  made  the  Duchess  seem 
slighter  and  more  fragile  than  ever,  and  she  herself  felt  always 
with  his  coming  some  addition  of  warmth  and  strength ;  each 
visit,  so  she  might  have  expressed  it,  gave  her  life  for  at 
least  another  tiny  span. 

That  he,  knowing  so  much  of  the  follies  and  catastrophes  of 
life,  should  yet  be  an  optimist,  would  have  proved  him  in  her 
opinion  a  fool  had  she  not  known,  by  constant  proof,  that  he 
was  anything  but  that.  "  Well,  one  day  he  will  discover  his 
mistake,"  she  would  say,  and  yet,  perversely,  would  cling  to 
him  for  the  sake  of  this  very  illusion.  He  helped  her  courage, 
he  helped  her  battle  with  her  pain,  he  gave  her,  sometimes, 
some  shadowy  sense  of  shame  for  her  passions  and  rebellions, 
but,  more  than  all  this,  he  yielded  her  a  reassurance  that  life, 
precious,  adorable,  wonderful  life,  was  yet  for  a  little  time  to 
be  hers. 

He  knew  well  enough  the  influence  that  he  possessed,  and 
when,  as  on  this  afternoon,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  avail  himself 
of  it,  he  could  not  pretend  that  he  faced  his  task  with  any 
exultation. 

That  he  should  rouse  her  fury,  as  he  had  one  or  twice 
already  roused  it,  meant  humiliation  for  him  as  well  as  for 
herself,  and  afterwards  embarrassment  for  them  both  as  they 
saw  those  scenes  in  retrospect. 

She  glanced  up  at  him  carefully  as  he  came  in  and  knew 
him  well  enough  to  realize  that  there  was  something  that  he 
must  say  to  her.  There  had  been  other  such  occasions,  she 
remembered  them  all.     Sometimes  she  herself  had  been  the 


90  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

subject  of  them,  something  that  was  injuring  her  health,  some 
indulgence  that  he  could  not  allow  her.  Sometimes  the  battle 
had  been  about  others ;  she  had  fought  him  and  on  occasions 
it  had  seemed  that  their  relationship  was  broken  once  and  for 
all,  that  nothing  could  cover  the  words  that  had  been  spoken 
—  but  always  through  everything  she  had  admired  his  cour- 
age. 

The  way  had  always  been  to  stand  up  to  her. 

For  a  little  time  they  talked  about  her  health,  and  then 
there  fell  a  pause.  She,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  with  her 
thin,  sharp  hands  on  her  lap,  watched  him  grimly  as  he  sat  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  leaning  forward  a  little,  look- 
ing into  the  fire. 

"  Well,"  she  said  at  last.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  Her  voice  was 
deep,  but  every  word  was  clear-cut,  resonant. 

"  There  is  something  —  two  things,"  he  answered  her 
slowly.  "  You  can  dismiss  me  for  an  interfering  old  fool,  you 
know.  You  often  have  been  tempted  to  do  it  before,  I  dare 
say." 

"  I  have,"  she  said.     "  Go  on." 

But  as  she  spoke  she  drew  her  hands  a  little  more  closely 
together.  She  was  not  quite  so  ready  for  these  battles  as  she 
had  once  been.  She  was  afraid  a  little  now.  A  new  sensa- 
tion for  her;  she  hated  that  restricting  awkwardness  that 
would  remain  between  them  for  days  afterwards. 

She  looked  at  his  red,  cheerful  face  and  wondered  im- 
patiently why  he  must  always  be  meddling  in  other  people's 
affairs.     She  hated  Quixotes. 

"  Your  Grace,"  he  began  again,  "  has  only  got  to  stop  me 
and  I'll  say  no  more." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will,"  she  said  impatiently.  "  I  know  you. 
Say  what  you  please." 

"  I  want  to  speak  about  Francis  Breton "     He  paused, 

but  she  said  nothing,  only  for  an  instant  her  whole  face 
flashed  into  stone.  The  firelight  seemed  for  an  instant  to  hold 
it  there,  then,  as  the  flame  fell,  she  was  once  again  indifferentr 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  HOUSE  91 

Christopher  had  grasped  his  courage  now.  He  went  on 
gravely : 

"  I  must  speak  about  him.  I  know  how  unpleasant  the 
whole  subject  is  to  you.  We've  had  our  discussions  before 
and  I've  fought  his  battles  with  all  the  world  more  times  than 
I  can  count.  You  must  remember  that  I've  known  Frank  all 
his  life  —  I  knew  his  imhappy  father.  I've  known  them  both 
long  enough  to  realize  that  the  boy's  been  heavily  handicapped 
from  the  beginning " 

"  Must  you,"  she  said,  looking  him  now  full  in  the  face, 
"  must  it  be  this  ?  Have  we  not  thrashed  it  out  thoroughly^ 
enough  already  ?     I  don't  change,  you  know." 

He  understood  that  she  was  appealing  to  his  regard  for 
their  own  especial  relationship.  But  there  was  a  note  of  con- 
trol in  her  voice ;  he  knew  that  now  she  would  listen : 

"  I've  cared  for  Frank  during  a  number  of  years.  I  know 
he's  weak,  impulsive,  incredibly  foolish.  He's  always  been 
his  own  worst  enemy.  I  know  that  the  other  day  he  wrote 
a  most  foolish  letter " 

"  It  was  a  letter  beyond  forgiveness,"  she  said,  her  voice 
trembling. 

"  Yes,  I  would  give  anything  to  have  prevented  it.  I  know 
that  when  he  was  in  England  before  I  pleaded  for  him,  as  I 
am  doing  now,  and  that  by  a  thousand  foolhardy  actions  he 
negatived  anything  that  I  could  say  for  him. 

"  I'm  urging  no  defence  for  the  things  that  he  did,  the  shady, 
disreputable  things.  But  he  has  come  back  now,  I  do  verily 
believe,  ready,  even  eager,  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf.     I ^" 

She  interrupted  him,  smiling. 

"  Yes.     That  letter " 

"  Oh,  I  know.  But  isn't  it  a  very  proof  of  what  I  say  — 
would  anyone  but  a  foolhardy  boy  have  done  such  a  thing? 
Sheer  bravado,  hoping  behind  it  all  to  be  taken  back  to  the 
fold  —  eager,  at  any  rate,  not  to  show  a  poor  spirit,  coward- 
ice." 

"  Over  thirty  now  —  old  for  a  boy ^' 


92  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

"  In  years,  yes.  But  younger,  oh !  ages  younger  than  that 
in  spirit,  in  knowledge  of  the  world,  in  everything  that  mat- 
ters —  I  know,"  he  went  on  more  slowly,  smiling  a  little, 
"  that  youVe  called  me  sentimentalist  times  without  number 
—  but  really  here  I'm  not  urging  you  to  anything  from  senti- 
mental reasons.  I'm  not  asking  you  to  take  him  back  and  kill 
the  fatted  calf  for  him. 

"  I'm  asking  nothing  absurd  —  only  that  you,  his  relations, 
all  that  he  has  of  kith  and  kin,  should  not  be  his  enemies, 
should  not  drive  him  to  desperation  —  and  worsa" 

"  If  you  imagine,"  she  said  steadily,  "  that  his  fate  is  of  the 
smallest  concern  to  me  you  know  me  very  little.  I  care 
nothing  of  what  becomes  of  him.  He  and  I  have  been 
enemies  for  many  years  now  and  a  few  words  from  you  cannot 
change  that." 

"  I'm  only  asking  you,"  he  replied,  "  to  give  him  a  chance. 
See  what  you  can  make  of  him,  instead  of  sending  him  into 
the  other  camp  —  use  him  even  if  you  cannot  care  for  him. 
There's  fine  stuff  there  in  spite  of  his  follies.  The  day 
might  come,  even  now,  when  you  will  own  yourself  proud  of 
him " 

But  she  had  caught  him  up,  leaning  forward  a  little,  her 
voice  now  of  a  sharper  turn.  "  The  other  camp  ?  What 
other  camp  ?  " 

He  caught  the  note  of  danger.  *^  I  only  mean,"  he  said, 
choosing  now  his  words  with  the  greatest  care,  "  that  if  youi 
turn  Frank  definitely,  once  and  for  all,  from  your  doors,  there 
may  be  others  ready  to  receive  him " 

"  His  men  and  his  women,"  she  broke  in  scornfully ;  "  don't 
I  know  them?  I've  not  lived  these  years  without  knowing 
the  raffish  tenth-rate  lot  that  failures  like  Frank  Breton 
affect " 

"  No  —  there  are  others,"  Christopher  said  firmly,  "  Mrs. 
Bronson,  for  instance " 

At  that  name  she  broke  in. 

"  Yes  —  exactly.     Mrs.  Bronson.     Oh !  I  know  the  kind  of 


IN  THE  HEAET  OF  THE  HOUSE     93 

crowd  that  Mrs.  Bronfion  and  her  like  can  gather.  They  are 
■welcome  to  Francis  and  he  to  them." —  She  paused.  He  saw 
that  she  was  controlling  herself  with  a  great  effort.  For  a 
little  while  there  was  silence  and  then  she  went  on,  more 
quietly : 

"  There,  now  you  have  it.  That  is  why  there  can  never  be 
any  truce  between  Francis  and  myself.  It  is  more  than 
Francis  —  it  is  all  the  things  that  he  stands  for,  all  the  things 
that  will  soon  make  England  a  rubbish  heap  for  every  dirty 
foreigner  to  dump  his  filth  on  to.  Hate  him?  Why,  I'll 
fight  him  and  all  that  he  stands  for  so  long  as  there's  breath 
in  my  body ^" 

"  But  Frank  is  with  you,"  Christopher  urged  eagerly,  "  if 
you'll  let  him  be.  He's  only  in  need  of  your  hand  and  back 
he'll  come.  He's  waiting  there  now  —  longing,  in  spite  of  his 
defiance,  for  a  word.  Give  him  it  and  in  the  end  I  know  as 
surely  as  I  sit  here  that  he'll  be  worth  your  while " 

"  What  can  he  do  for  me  ?  " 

"  Ah !  He'll  show  you.  After  all,  he  is  one  of  the  family ; 
he's  miserable  there  in  his  exile.  He's  got  your  own  spirit  — 
he'd  die  rather  than  own  to  defeat  —  but  he'll  repay  you  if 
you  have  him." 

He  saw  then,  as  she  turned  towards  him,  that  he  had  done 
no  good. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  I've  heard  you  fairly.  Let  us  leave 
this  now,  once  and  for  all.  I  tell  you  finally  no  word  that 
God  Almighty  could  speak  on  this  business  could  change  me 
one  atom.  Francis  Breton  and  I  are  foes  for  all  time.  I 
hate  not  only  himself  and  the  miserable  mess  that  he's 
made  of  his  life,  I  hate  all  this  new  generation  that  he  stands 
for. 

"  I  hate  these  new  opinions,  I  hate  this  indulgence  now 
towards  everything  that  any  fool  in  the  country  may  choose 
to  think  or  say.  In  my  day  we  knew  how  to  use  the  fools. 
Took  advantage  of  their  muddle,  ran  the  world  on  it.  I 
loathe  this  tendency  to  make  everyone  as  intelligent  as  they; 


94  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

can  be !  Why !  in  God's  name !  Give  me  two  intelligent  men 
and  a  dozen  fools  and  you'll  get  something  done.  Take  a 
wastrel  like  Frank  and  turn  him  out.  Take  muddlers  like 
my  family  and  keep  'em  muddled.  Richard  ran  the  country 
well  enough  for  a  time  or  two,  and  he's  been  a  muddler  from 
his  childhood. 

"  All  this  cry  to  educate  the  people,  to  be  kind  to  thieves 
and  murderers !  to  help  the  fools  —  my  God !  If  I  still  had 
my  say  —  Whilst  there's  breath  in  me  I'll  fight  the  lot  of 
them." 

She  leant  back  in  her  chair,  waited  for  breath,  and  then 
went  on  more  mildly : 

"  You  may  like  all  this  noise  and  clamour.  Doctor.  You 
may  like  your  Mrs.  Bronson  and  the  rest  —  common,  vulgar, 
brainless  —  ruling  the  world.  Every  decent  law  that  held 
society  together  is  being  broken  and  nobody  cares. 

"  Frank  Breton  may  find  his  place  in  this  new  world.  He 
has  no  place  in  mine." 

Then  she  added :  "  So  much  for  that  —  what's  the  other 
thing?" 

But  he  hesitated.  Her  voice  was  tired,  even  tremulous, 
and  he  was  aware  as  he  looked  across  at  her  that  her  emotions 
now  treated  her  more  severely  than  they  had  once  done. 
At  the  same  time  he  was  aware  that  giving  free  play  to  her 
temper  always  did  her  good. 

"  Well  —  perhaps  —  another  day " 

*'  ^o  —  now.  I  may  as  well  take  my  scoldings  together  — 
it  saves  time !  " 

He  stood  up  and,  leaning  on  the  mantelpiece  with  one  arm, 
looked  down  upon  her. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  I'm  afraid  I  may  seem  doubly  imperti- 
nent, but  it's  a  matter  that  is  closer  to  me  than  anything  in 
the  world.  You  know  that  I'm  a  lonely  old  bachelor  and  that 
all  those  sentiments  that  you  accuse  me  of  must  find  some 
vent  somewhere.  I'm  fonder  of  Rachel,  I  think,  than  I  am  of 
anyone  in  the  world,  and  it's  only  that  affection  and  the 


IN   THE  HEAET  OF  THE  HOUSE     95 

feeling  that,  in  some  ways,  I  know  her  better  than  any  of  you 
do  that  give  me  courage  to  speak." 

He  could  see  that  now  she  was  reaching  the  limits  of  her 
patience. 

"  Well  —  what  of  Rachel  ?  " 

"  I  understand  —  I  know  —  that  you  —  that  all  of  you 
intend  that  she  shall  marry  young  Seddon " 

"Well?" 

"  I  know  that  it  is  impertinent  of  me,  but,  as  I  have  said,  I 
think  I  know  Rachel  differently  from  anyone  else  in  the 
world.  She  is  strange  —  curiously  ignorant  of  life  in  many 
ways,  curiously  wise  in  others.  Her  simplicity  —  the  things 
that  she  takes  on  trust  —  there  is  no  end  to  it.  The  things, 
too,  that  she  cannot  forgive  —  she  doesn't  know  how  often, 
later  on,  she  will  have  to  forgive  them  — 

"  But  the  first  man  who  breaks  her  trust " 

"  Thank  you  for  this  interesting  light  on  Rachel's  char- 
acter.    What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  that  she  mustn't  be  hurt 
Your  Grace  may  turn  me  out  of  the  house  here  and  now  if 
you  will,  but  Seddon  is  the  wrong  man  for  her  to  marry " 

"  What  are  his  crimes  ?  "  Her  voice  was  rising,  and  her 
hand  tapped  impatiently  on  her  dress. 

"  I  know  him  only  slightly,  but  common  repute  —  anyone 
who  is  in  the  London  world  at  all  will  tell  you  —  his  reputa- 
tion is  bad.  I've  nothing  against  him  myself,  but  his  affairs 
with  women  have  been  many.  He  is  no  worse,  I  dare  say, 
than  a  thousand  others.  At  least  he's  young  —  and  I  myself, 
God  knows,  am  no  moralist.  But  to  marry  him  to  Rachel 
will  be  a  crime." 

He  knew  as  he  heard  his  own  voice  drop  that  the  scene 
that  he  dreaded  was  upon  him.  The  air  was  charged  with  it. 
In  the  strangest  way  everything  in  the  room  seemed  to  be 
changed  because  of  it.  The  furniture,  the  dragons,  the  tables, 
the  very  trifles  of  gold  and  silver,  seemed  to  withdraw,  leav- 
ing the  air  weighted  with  passion. 


9B  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  Her  voice  was  very 
low. 

"  You've  gone  too  far.  What  business  is  this  of  yours  ? 
How  dare  you  come  to  me  with  these  tales  ?  How  dare  you  ? 
You've  taken  too  much  on  your  shoulders.  See  to  your  own 
house,  Doctor " 

He  stepped  back  from  the  fireplace. 

"  Please  —  to-morrow " 

"  'No.  Here  and  now."  Her  words  Hashed  at  him. 
"  You've  begun  to  think  yourself  indispensable.  Because 
I've  shown  you  that  I  rely  upon  you  —  Because,  at  times, 
I've  seemed  to  need  your  aid  —  therefore  you've  interfered  in 
matters  that  are  no  concern  of  yours." 

"  They  are  concerns  of  mine,"  he  answered  firmly,  "  in  so 
far  as  this  affair  is  connected  with  my  friend." 

"  Your  friend  and  my  granddaughter,"  she  retorted. 
"  But  it  is  not  only  that.  I  will  return  you  your  own 
words.  You  say  that  your  friend  is  in  danger  —  what  of 
mine?  You  have  dared  to  attack  someone  who  is  more  to 
me  than  you  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world  put  together.  Some- 
one whom  I  care  for  as  I  have  never  cared  for  my  own  sons. 
It  was  bold  of  you,  Dr.  Christopher,  and  I  shall  not  forget 
it" 

He  took  it  without  flinching.  ^*  Very  well,"  he  said. 
**  But  my  word  to  the  end  is  the  same.  If  you  marry  Seddon 
to  your  granddaughter  you  do  your  own  sense  of  justice 
wrong." 

At  that  the  last  vestige  of  restraint  left  her.  Leaning 
forward  in  her  chair  she  poured  her  words  upon  him  in  a 
torrent  of  anger.  Her  voice  was  not  raised,  but  her  words 
cut  the  air,  and  now  and  again  she  raised  her  hands  in  a  move- 
ment of  furious  protest. 

She  spared  him  nothing,  dragged  forward  old  incidents,  old 
passages  between  them  that  he  had  thought  long  ago  for- 
gotten, reminded  him  of  occasions  when  he  had  been  mistaken 
or  over-certain,  accused  him  of  crimes  that  would  have  caused 


IN  THE  HEAET  OF  THE  HOUSE     97 

Mm  to  leave  the  country  had  there  been  a  vestige  of  truth  in 
her  words ;  at  last,  beaten  for  breath,  gasped  out :  "  Sir 
Roderick  Seddon  shall  know  of  what  you  accuse  him.  He 
shall  deal  with  you " 

"  I  have  nothing,"  Christopher  answered  gravely,  "  against 
Seddon  —  nothing  except  that  he  should  not  marry  Eachel !  " 

"  You  have  attacked  him !  "  she  gasped  out.  "  He  —  shall 
»—  answer." 

But  her  rage  had  exhausted  her.  She  lay  back  against  her 
chair,  heaving,  clutching  at  the  arms  for  support. 

He  summoned  Dorchester,  but  when  he  approached  the 
Duchess  feebly  motioned  him  away. 

"  I've  —  done  —  with  you  —  never  again,"  she  murmured. 

She  seemed  then  most  desperately  old.  Her  dress  was  in 
disorder,  her  face  wizened  with  deep  lines  beneath  her  eyes 
and  hollows  in  her  cheeks. 

Christopher  waited  while  Dorchester  helped  her  mistress 
into  the  farther  room.  For  some  time  there  was  silence. 
The  room  was  stifling,  and,  impatiently,  he  pulled  back  the 
heavy  red  curtains. 

He  sat,  waiting,  eyeing  the  stupid  dragons,  every  now  and 
again  glancing  at  his  watch. 

Even  now  the  room  seemed  to  vibrate  with  her  voice,  and 
he  could  imagine  that  the  French  novel,  fallen  from  her  lap 
on  to  the  carpet,  winked  at  him  as  much  as  to  say : 

"  Oh,  we're  up  to  her  tempers,  aren't  we  ?  We  know  what 
they're  worth.     We  don't  care !  " 

At  last  Dorchester  appeared. 

"  Her  Grace  is  in  bed  and  will  see  you,  sir,"  she  said. 

Her  face  was  grave  and  without  expression. 

After  another  glance  at  his  watch  he  passed  into  the 
bedroom. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  TIGER 

For  every  Marine  there  lurketh 
hys  Wilde  Beast." 

SAiiDus    Aquinas    (1512). 


BEU]^,  meeting  Christopher  one  day,  had  asked  him  to 
tea  in  his  flat,  and  then,  remembering  his  interest  in 
the  Beaminster  history,  invited  him  to  bring  Breton  with  him. 
"  I  haven't  seen  him  for  years.  I'd  like  to  see  him  again." 
Christopher  had  accepted  this  invitation,  and  now  on  a 
sultry  afternoon  in  June  found  himself  sitting  in  Brun's 
rooms.  Brun's  sitting-room  had  a  glazed  and  mathematical 
appearance  as  though,  from  cushions  to  ceiling,  it  had  been 
purchased  at  a  handsome  price  from  a  handsome  warehousa 
It  was  not  comfortable,  it  was  very  hot.  .  .  .  The  narrow 
street  squeezed  between  Portland  Square  and  Great  Portland 
Street  lay  on  its  back,  the  little  windows  of  its  mean  houses 
gasping  like  mouths  for  air,  the  hard  sun  pouring  pitilessly 
down. 

No  weather  nor  atmosphere  ever  affected  Brun.  His 
clothes  as  well  as  his  body  had  that  definite  appearance  of 
something  outside  change  or  disorder.  He  might  have  been, 
one  would  allow,  something  else  at  earlier  stages  before  this 
final  result  had  been  achieved  (as  a  painting  is  presented  to 
the  observer  before  its  completion),  but  surely  now  nothing 
would  ever  be  done  to  him  again.  Surveying  him,  he  ap- 
peared less  a  man  with  a  history,  origins,  destinies  about  him 
than  an  opinion  or  a  criticism.  He  was  designed  exactly  by 
Nature  for  cynical  observation,  and  was  intended  to  play  no 
other  part  in  life. 

"  Well,  Christopher  ?  "  said  Brun.     "  Hot,  isn't  it  ?  " 
"  My  word  —  yes.     Breton's  coming  along  presently." 

98 


THE  TIGER  99 

"  Grood.  I've  asked  Arkwright  the  explorer.  'Nice  fel- 
low."    They  sat  in  silence  for  a  little.     Then  Brun  said: 

"  Interested  in  writers,  Christopher  ?  " 

"  Not  very  much.     Why  ?  " 

"  Just  been  lunching  with  a  young  novelist,  Westcott. 
What  he  said  interested  me.  Of  course,  he's  very  young,  got 
no  humour,  takes  himself  dreadfully  seriously,  but  he  asked 
my  advice  —  and  it  is  as  a  sign  of  the  times  over  here  that  I 
mention  it." 

"  Go  ahead." 

"  He  tells  me  that  a  number  of  young  novelists  are  going  to 
band  themselves  into  a  kind  of  Artists'  Young  Liberty  move- 
ment —  artists,  poets,  novelists,  some  thirty  altogether  —  go* 
ing  to  have  a  magazine,  do  all  kinds  of  things.  Some  of  the 
older  men  will  scoff.     At  the  same  time " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Christopher. 

"  They'd  asked  him  to  join.     He  wanted  my  opinion." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  He  interested  me  —  he  was  a  kind  of  test  case.  It  would 
mean  that,  commercially,  from  the  popular  point  of  view,  it 
would  put  him  back  for  years.  Those  young  men  will  all  bo 
put  down  as  conceited  cranks.  They  will  tilt  at  the  success- 
ful popular  men  like  Lawson  and  the  others,  will  worship  at 
the  feet  of  the  unsuccessful  *  Great  *  men  like  Lester  and 
Cotton.  The  papers  will  hate  'em,  the  public  will  be  indiffer- 
ent. The  result  will  be  that,  in  the  end,  they  may  do  a  big 
thing  —  at  any  rate  they'll  have  done  a  fine  thing,  but  they'll 
all  die  on  the  way,  I  expect." 

Brun  spoke  with  enthusiasm  unusual  for  him. 

"  How  was  this  a  test  of  Westcott  ?  "  asked  Christopher. 

"  Well  —  would  he  go  or  no  ?  He's  at  the  kind  of  parting 
cf  the  ways.  I  believe  success  is  coming  to  him,  if  he  wants 
it ;  but  he'll  have  to  build  another  wall  in  front  of  his  Tiger 
cither  before  the  success  or  after.  If  he  joins  this  crowd  of 
men,  there'll  be  no  walls  for  him  ever  again." 

Christopher  knew  that  when  Brun  had  some  idea  that  he 


100  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

was  pleasantly  pursuing  and  had  secured  an  audience  nothing 
would  stay  or  hinder  him. 

He  pushed  a  chair  towards  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  your  Tiger  ?  "  he  asked. 

**  My  Tiger  is  what  every  man  has  within  him  —  I  don't 
mean,  you  know,  a  nasty  habit  or  a  degrading  passion  or 
anything  of  necessity  vicious  —  only  my  theory  is  that  every 
man  is  given  at  the  outset  of  life  a  Beast  in  the  finest,  noblest 
sense  with  whom  through  life  he  has  got  to  settle.  It  may  be 
an  Ambition,  or  a  Passion,  or  a  Temptation,  or  a  Virtue,  what 
you  will,  but  with  that  Beast  he's  got  to  live.  Now  it's 
according  to  his  dealings  with  the  Beast  that  the  man's  great 
or  no.  If  he  faces  the  Beast  —  and  the  Beast  is  generally 
something  that  a  man  knows  about  himself  that  nobody  else 
knows  —  the  Beast  can  be  used,  magnificently  used.  If  he's 
afraid,  pretends  the  Tiger  isn't  there,  builds  up  walls,  hides 
in  cities,  does  what  you  will,  then  he  must  be  prepared  for  a 
life  of  incessant  alarm,  and  he  may  be  sure  that  at  some 
moment  or  another  the  Tiger  will  make  his  spring  —  then 
there'll  be  a  crisis ! 

"  Over  here  in  England  you're  hiding  your  Tigers  all  the 
time.  That's  why  you're  muddled  —  about  Art,  Literature, 
Government,  everything  that  matters  —  and  an  old  woman 
like  the  Duchess  of  Wrexe  —  sharp  enough  herself,  mind  you 
—  uses  all  of  you. 

"  No  Beaminster  has  ever  faced  his  or  her  Tiger  yet,  and 
they're  down,  like  knives,  on  everyone  who  does  and  every- 
thing that  shows  the  Tiger's  bright  eyes 

"  But  I  see  —  oh,  Lord !  I  see  —  a  time  coming,  yes,  here 
in  England,  when  the  Individual,  the  great  man,  is  coming 
through,  when  the  Duchess  will  be  dead  and  the  Beaminster 
driven  from  power  and  every  man  with  his  Tiger  there  in 
front  of  him,  faced  and  trained,  will  have  his  chance  — 

"  More  brain,  more  courage,  no  muddle  —  God  help  the 
day!" 

"  You  see  things  moving  —  everywhere  f  '* 


THE  TIGER  101 

"Everywhere.  These  fellows,  Randal  aild  the  rest,  are 
bringing  their  Tigers  with  'em.  They're  going  to  put  them 
there  for  all  the  world  to  see.  It's  only  another  party  out 
against  the  Duchess,  she  wants  all  the  Tigers  hidden  —  only 
herself  to  know  about  them  —  then  she  can  do  her  work. 
She'll  hate  these  fellows  until  they've  made  their  stand  and 
then  she'll  try  to  adopt  them  in  order  to  muzzle  them  the 
better  in  the  end. 

"  If  Westcott  hides  his  Tiger,  forgets  he's  there,  his  way's 
plain  enough.  He'll  make  money,  the  Duchess  will  ask  him 
to  tea.  Let  him  join  these  fellows  and  his  Tiger  may  tear  all 
Ms  present  self  to  pieces." 

"  What  about  yourself,  Brun  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  nothing !  I'm  the  one  great  exception.  ITo 
Tiger  thinks  me  worth  while.  I  merely  observe,  I  don't 
feel  —  and  you  have  to  feel  to  keep  your  Tiger  alive." 

Brun's  little  lecture  was  over.  He  suddenly  drew  his  body 
together,  clapped  his  mental  hands  to  dismiss  the  whole  thing 
and  was  drawing  Westcott  to  the  door. 

"  But  I  talk  —  how  I  talk !  You  bear  with  me,  Christo- 
pher, because  I  must  go  on,  you  know.  It  means  nothing  — 
absolutely  nothing.  But  they  will  have  arrived  now,  so  down 
we  go.  I  go  on  in  my  sleep,  exactly  the  same.  And  now 
tea  —  and  I  will  talk  less  because  Breton  talks  a  great  deal 
and  so  does  Arkwright,  and  so  do  you.  .  .  ." 

n 

Arkwright  came,  and  after  a  little,  Breton.  But  the  meet- 
ing was  not  a  success.  Arkwright  had  heard  a  good  deal 
about  Breton's  reputation,  and  although,  on  the  whole,  he  was 
tolerant  of  any  backsliding  in  women,  he  made  what  he  called 
his  liking  for  "  clean  men  "  an  excuse  for  much  narrow- 
mindedness. 

It  is  quite  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  living  in  solitude  and 
danger  makes  a  human  being  tolerant.  It  has  the  precisely 
opposite  effect.     Arkwright  was  more  frightened  of  a  man 


102  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

who  was  not  "  quite  right  with  society  "  than  of  any  number 
of  enraged  natives.  With  natives  one  knew  where  one  was. 
Whereas  with  a  man  like  this  .  .  . 

Breton,  anxious  to  please,  made  the  mistake  of  showing  hig 
anxiety.  Seeing  an  enemy  round  every  corner  he  was  a  little 
theatrical,  too  demonstrative,  too  foreign.  Arkwright  dis- 
liked his  beard  and  the  movement  of  his  hands.  "  He 
wouldn't  have  come,  had  he  known.  .  .  ." 

Breton  had,  of  course,  at  once  perceived  this  man's  hostil- 
ity. Returning  to  England  had  involved,  as  he  had  known 
that  it  must,  a  life  of  battles,  skirmishes,  retreats,  wounds, 
and  every  kind  of  hostility.  People  did  not  forget  and  even 
had  they  desired  to  do  so,  his  relationship  family  history  pre- 
vented Breton's  oblivion. 

He  was  ready  for  discourtesy,  however  eager  he  may  have 
been  for  friendship.  But  what  the  Devil,  he  thought,  is  this 
fellow  doing  here  at  all  ?  If  Brun  brought  him  in  he  must 
have  told  him  just  whom  he  was  to  meet,  and  if  he  came  with 
that  knowledge  about  him,  why  then  should  he  not  behave 
like  a  gentleman  ?  Breton's  half  timid  advance  towards 
friendliness  now  yielded  to  curt  hostility. 

Brun  maintained  his  silence  and  only  watched  the  two 
men  with  an  amusement  just  concealed.  Conversation  at 
last  ceased  and  the  heat  beat,  in  waves,  through  the  open 
windows  and  the  air  seemed  now  to  be  stiffened  into  bronze. 
Beyond  the  room  all  the  city  lay  waiting  for  the  cool  of  the 
evening. 

Christopher  liked  Arkwright  and  Arkwright  liked  Christo- 
pher. 

Christopher  had  read  one  of  Arkwright's  books  and  spoke 
of  it  with  praise  and  also  intelligence,  and  nothing  goes  to  an 
author's  heart  like  intelligent  appreciation  from  an  unbiassed 
critic.  But  Breton  was  not  to  be  won  over.  He  sat  deep  in 
his  chair  and  replied  in  sulky  monosyllables  whenever  he  was 
addressed. 


THE  TIGER  103 

Christoplier  soon  gave  him  up  and  the  three  men  talked 
amongst  themselves. 

The  heat  of  the  afternoon  passed  and  a  little  hreeze  danced 
into  the  room,  and  the  hard  brightness  of  the  sky  changed  to 
a  pale  primrose  that  had  still  some  echo  of  the  blue  in  its  faint 
colour. 

The  city  had  uttered  no  sound  through  the  heat  of  the  day, 
but  now  voices  came  up  to  the  windows :  the  distant  crying 
of  papers,  the  call  of  some  man  with  flowers,  then  the  bells  of 
the  Eound  Church  began  to  ring  for  evensong. 

Breton  sat  there,  wrapped  in  sulky  discontent.  In  his 
heart  he  was  wretched.  Christopher  had  deserted  him ;  these 
men  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  As  was  his  nature 
everything  about  him  was  exaggerated.  He  had  come  to 
Brun's  rooms  that  afternoon,  feeling  that  men  had  taken  him 
back  to  their  citizenship  again,  l^ow  he  was  more  urgently 
assured  of  his  ostracism  than  before.  Who  were  these  men 
to  give  themselves  these  airs  ?  Because  he  had  made  one  slip 
were  they  to  constitute  themselves  his  judges  ?  These  Bea- 
minster  virtues  again  —  the  trail  of  his  family  at  every  step, 
that  same  damnable  hypocrisy,  that  same  priggish  assumption 
of  the  right  to  judge.  Better  to  die  in  the  society  of  those 
friends  of  his  who  had  suffered  as  he  had  done,  from  the  judg- 
ment of  the  world  —  no  scorn  of  sinners  there,  no  failure  in 
all  sense  of  true  proportion. 

Christopher  got  up  to  go.  He  gave  Arkwright  his  card. 
**  Come  in  and  dine  one  night  and  tell  me  all  you're  do- 
ing   " 

"  Of  course  I'll  come,"  Arkwright  said.  "  Only  you're 
jnuch  too  busy " 

"  Indeed  no,"  said  Christopher.  "  One  day  next  week 
you'll  hear  from  me " 

Breton  got  up.  "  I'll  come  with  you,"  he  said  to  Christo- 
pher. 

The  two  men  went  away  together. 


104  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

When  they  were  gone  Arkwright  said  to  Brun,  "  Now  that's 
the  kind  of  man  I  like " 

"  Yes,"  said  Brun,  laughing.  "  Better  than  the  other 
fellow,  eh?" 

Arkwright  smiled.     "  More  my  sort,  I  must  confess." 

in 

Christopher  and  Breton  did  not  speak  until  they  reached 
Oxford  Circus.  Here  everything,  flower-women,  omnibuses, 
grey  buildings,  grimy  men  and  women  —  was  drowned  in: 
purple  shadow.  It  might  be  only  a  moment's  beauty,  but  now 
beneath  the  evening  star,  frosted  silver  and  alone  in  a  blue 
heaven,  sound  advanced  and  receded  with  the  quiet  rhythm 
of  water  over  sand.  For  an  instant  a  black  figure  of  an  om- 
nibus stood  against  the  blue  and  held  all  the  swell,  the  glow, 
the  stir  at  a  fixed  point  —  then  life  was  once  more  distrib- 
uted. 

Here,  as  they  turned  down  Oxford  Street  Christopher  broke 
silence.     He  put  his  arm  through  Breton's : 

"  Well,  Frank  ?     Sulks  not  over  yet  ?  " 

Breton  broke  away.  "  It's  all  very  well,  but  I  suppose  I'm 
to  pretend  that  I  like  being  insulted  by  any  kind  of  fool  who 
happens  to  turn  up.  Good  God,  Chris,  you'd  think  I  was  a 
child  by  the  way  you  talk  to  me." 

"  And  so  you  are  a  child,"  said  Christopher  impatiently, 
"  and  a  thankless  child  too.  Sometimes  I  wonder  why  I  keep 
on  bothering  with  you." 

Christopher  was,  like  other  Scotchmen,  a  curious  mixture 
of  amiability  and  irascibility ;  his  temper  came  from  his  pride 
and  Breton  had  learnt,  many  years  ago,  to  fear  it.  In  fact,  of 
all  the  things  in  life  that  he  disliked  doing,  quarrelling  with 
Christopher  was  the  most  disagreeable.  Then  there  were 
stubbornness  and  tenacity  that  were  hard  indeed  to  deal  with. 
But  to-day  he  was  reckless ;  the  heat  of  the  afternoon  and  now 
the  beauty  of  the  evening  had  both,  in  their  different  ways, 
contributed  to  his  ill-temper.     He  knew,  even  now,  that  after* 


THE  TIGER  106 

wards  he  would  regret  every  word  that  he  littered,  but  he 
let  his  temper  go. 

"  I  wonder  that  you  do  bother,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  alone 
and  let  me  find  my  own  way." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  Christopher  answered.  "  There's  noth- 
ing in  the  world  for  us  to  quarrel  about,  only  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  giving  such  a  wrong  impression  of  yourself  to 
strangers  —  sulking  there  as  though  you  were  five  years 
old " 

"All  very  well,"  retorted  Breton;  "you  didn't  hear  the 
way  that  fellow  insulted  me.  I'll  wring  his  neck  if  I  meet 
him  again.     I'll " 

"  Now,  enough  of  that !  "  Christopher's  voice  was  stem. 
"  You  know  quite  well,  Frank,  that  you're  hardly  in  a  posi- 
tion to  wring  anyone's  neck.  You  remember  the  account  I 
gave  you  of  my  little  dispute  with  your  grandmother " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Breton  fiercely.  "  You  remind  me 
rather  frequently  of  the  kind  things  you  do  for  me." 

And  all  the  time  something  in  him  was  whispering  to  him, 
""  Wliat  a  fool  you  are  to  talk  like  this !  " 

Christopher's  voice  now  was  cold :     "  That's  hardly  fair  of 

you.     I'm  turning  up  here "     They  paused.     Breton 

looked  away  from  him  up  into  the  quiet  blue  recesses  of  the 
side  street.  Christopher  went  on :  "I  only  mean  that  if  I 
were  you  I  should  drop  hanging  on  to  the  skirts  of  a  family 
who  don't  want  you.  I  should  set  about  and  get  some  work 
to  do,  cut  all  those  rotten  people  you  go  about  with,  and 
behave  decently  to  strangers  when  you  meet  them.  That's 
all.     Good  night." 

And  Christopher  was  gone. 

Breton  stood  there,  for  a  moment,  with  the  tide  of  hia 
misery  full  upon  him.  Then  he  turned  down  Oxford  Street 
and  drove  his  way  through  the  crowds  of  people  who  were 
coming  up  towards  the  Circus.  He  was  alone,  utterly  alone 
in  all  the  world.  Everyone  else  had  a  home  to  go  to,  he  alone 
had  nowhere. 


lOe  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Only  a  few  "weeks  ago  lie  had  come  back  to  England,  witli 
money  enough  to  keep  him  alive  and  a  fine  burning  passion 
of  revenge.  That  family  of  his  should  lament  the  day  of  his 
birth,  that  old  woman  should  be  dovni  on  her  knees,  begging 
his  mercy.  !N^ow  how  cold  and  wasted  was  that  revenge! 
What  a  fool  was  he  wincing  at  the  ill-manners  of  a  stranger, 
quarrelling  with  the  best  friend  man  ever  had. 

How  evilly  could  Life  desert  a  man  and  kill  him  with  lone- 
liness. 

And  then  his  mood  changed;  if  Christopher  and  the  rest 
intended  to  cast  him  off,  let  them.  There  were  his  old  friends 
■ —  men  and  women  who  had  been  ostracized  by  the  world  as 
he  had  been  —  they  would  know  how  to  treat  him. 

He  turned  into  the  silence  and  peace  of  Saxton  Square  and 
there  met  Miss  Rand,  who  was  also  walking  home.  The 
statue  was  wrapped  in  blue  mist,  the  trees  were  fading  into 
grey  and  the  evening  star  seemed  to  have  taken  Saxton  Square 
under  its  especial  protection. 

"  Good  evening,  Miss  Rand." 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Breton." 

"  Isn't  it  a  lovely  evening  ?  " 

"  Yes.     But  hasn't  it  been  hot  ?  " 

Miss  Rand  did  not  look  as  though  she  could  ever,  under  any 
possible  circumstances,  be  hot,  so  neat  and  cool  was  she, 
but  she  said  yes  it  had  been. 

"  Isn't  it  odd  the  way  that  as  soon  as  it's  fine  people  begin 
to  complain  just  as  they  do  when  it's  wet  ?  " 

"  It  gives  them  something  to  talk  about  —  just  as  it's  giving 
lis  something  now,"  said  Miss  Rand,  laughing. 

Breton  looked  at  her  and  liked  her.  She  seemed  so  strong 
and  wise  and  safe.  She  would  surely  always  give  one  the 
kind  of  sensible  encouragement  that  one  needed.  She  would 
be  a  good  person  in  whom  to  confide. 

They  were  on  the  top  doorstep  now. 

"**  iN'o.     I've  got  a  key."     He  let  her  pass  him. 

I'hey  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  together. 


THE  TIGER  lOT 

He  spoke,  as  he  always  did,  on  the  instant's  inspiration : 

"Miss  Rand?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I'm  alone  such  a  lot  —  in  my  evenings  I  mean.  I  wonder 
—  might  I  come  down  sometimes  and  just  talk  a  little  ?  You 
don't  know  how  bad  thinking  too  much  is  for  me,  and  if  I 
might " 

"  Why,  of  course,  Mr.  Breton  —  whenever  you  like." 

Seeing  her  now,  he  thought,  just  now,  with  her  sudden 
colour  she  looked  quite  pretty. 

"  I  expect  you  could  advise  me  —  help  me  in  lots  of 
ways " 

"  If  there's  anything  mother  or  I  can  do,  Mr.  Breton, 
you've  only  got  to  ask  —  Good  night " 

The  door  closed  behind  her. 

He  went  up  to  his  room,  a  less  miserable  man. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  GOLI>EN  CAGE 

"  She  gives  away  because  she  overflows.  She  has  her  own  feelings, 
her  own  standards;  she  doesn't  keep  remembering  that  she  must  be 
proud." —  The  Lesson  of  the  Master. 


THOSE  weeks  were,  to  Rachel,  a  golden  time.  She  did 
not  pretend  to  deny  or  examine  their  golden  quality  — 
they  were  far,  far  better  than  she  had  imagined  anything 
could  ever  be,  and  that  was  enough.  She  had  never,  very 
definitely,  imagined  to  herself  this  "  coming  out,"  but  it  had 
been,  at  any  rate,  behind  its  possible  glories,  a  period  of 
terror.  "  All  those  people  "  was  the  way  that,  with  fright* 
ened  eyes,  she  had  contemplated  it. 

And  now  the  kindness  that  there  had  been !  All  the  Lon^ 
don  world  had  surely  nothing  to  do  but  to  pay  her  compliv 
ments,  to  surround  her  with  courtesies,  to  flatter  her  every 
wish.  Even  Aunt  Adela  had  under  the  general  enthusiasm, 
blossomed  a  little  into  good-will,  even  Uncle  Richard  had  re- 
membered to  wish  her  well,  even  the  Duke  had  cracked  ap^ 
plause,  and  as  for  Uncle  John !  ...  he  was  like  an  amiable 
conjurer  whose  best  (and  also  most  difficult)  trick  had 
achieved  an  absolute  triumph. 

And  behind  all  this  there  was  more.     May,  June  and  the 

early  part  of  July  showered  such  weather  upon  London  as 

had  surely  never  been  showered  before,  and  these  brilliant 

days  dressed,  for  Rachel,  her  brilliant  success  in  cloth  of  gold 

and  emblazoned  robes.     She  felt  the  presence  of  London  for 

the  first  time,  as  the  hot  weather  came  beating  up  the  streets 

and  the  brilliant  whites  and  blues  and  greens  and  reds  flung 

back  to  the  burning  blue  their  contrast  and  splendour. 

She  felt,  for  the  first  time,  her  own  especial  Loudon,  and 

109 


THE  GOLDEK  CAGE  109 

now  the  grey  cool  cluster  of  buildings  at  one  end  of  blazing 
Portland  Place  and  the  dark  green  of  the  hovering  park  at 
the  other  end  had  a  new  meaning  for  her,  as  though  she  had 
only  just  come  to  live  here  and  was  seeing  it  all  for  the  first 
time.  In  the  streets  that  hung  about  Portland  Place  she 
noticed  little  shops  —  little  bakers  and  little  shoemakers  and 
little  tailors  and  little  sweetshops  —  and  they  were  all  furtive 
and  dark  and  shabby. 

And  these  little  shops  led  to  the  growth  in  her  mind  of  an 
especial  picture  of  her  square  of  London  life,  Portland  Place 
white  and  shining  in  the  middle,  with  the  Circus  like  a  fair 
at  one  end  of  it,  the  park  like  a  mystery  at  the  other  end  of  it, 
and,  on  either  side,  little  secret  shops  and  little  dim  squares 
hanging  about  it,  and  Harley  Street  sinister  and  ominous  by 
its  side. 

Every  element  of  Life  and  Death  was  there,  the  whole 
History  of  Man's  Journey  Through  This  World  to  the  JSText. 

Behind  all  the  joy  and  overflowing  happiness  of  these  weeks 
this  sudden  setting  of  London  about  her  was  consciously 
present. 

n 

Since  that  meeting  with  Miss  Rand  on  the  day  before  the 
ball  Eachel  had  often  spoken  to  her.  They  met  at  first  by 
accident  and  then  Rachel  had  gone  to  Lizzie's  neat  little  sit' 
ting-room  to  ask  for  something  and,  after  that,  had  looked  in 
for  five  minutes  or  so,  and  they  had  talked  very  pleasantly 
about  the  hot  weather  and  the  theatres  and  the  ways  of  the 
world. 

Behind  all  the  splendour  there  was,  for  Rachel,  the  dark 
shadow  of  suspense.  Was  it  going  to  last?  What  was  to 
follow  it?  When  would  those  awkward  uncertainties  that 
had  once  kept  her  company  return  to  her?  l^ow  whatever 
else  might  be  doubtful  about  Miss  Rand,  one  thing  was  cer- 
tain, that  she  would  last,  would  remain  to  the  end  the  samo 
clean,  reliable,  honest  person  that  she  was  now. 


110  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

Imagine  Lizzie  Rand  unreliable  and  she  vanishes  alto* 
gether !  Rachel  welcomed  this  and  she  also  admired  the  won- 
derful manner  in  which  Miss  Rand  accomplished  her  gigantic 
task.  To  run  a  house  like  this  one  and  at  the  end  of  it  all  to 
remain  as  composed  and  safe  as  though  nothing  had  been 
done! 

Rachel  herself  might  carry  off  a  difficult  situation  by  rid' 
ing  desperately  at  it,  stringing  her  resources  to  their  highest 
pitch,  but  afterwards  reaction  would  claim  its  penalty. 

The  penalties  were  never  claimed  from  Miss  Rand. 

So,  gradually,  without  any  definite  words  or  events,  almost 
without  active  consciousness,  they  became  friends. 

Rachel,  suddenly,  on  one  afternoon  early  in  July,  deter- 
mined to  go  and  pay  Lizzie  Rand  a  visit  in  her  house. 

That  house  in  Saxton  Square  had  acquired  a  new  romantic 
interest  since  Rachel  had  learnt  that  the  abandoned,  abomin- 
able cousin,  who  defied  Grandmamma  and  whose  name  one 
was  never  to  mention,  lived  there.  Rachel  had  considered 
this  cousin  more  than  once  during  these  last  months.  She 
had  resented,  from  the  first,  the  fact  that  he  was  to  be  given, 
by  the  family,  no  chance  of  redemption.  However  bad  he 
had  been  (and  he  had  apparently  been  very  bad  indeed)  his 
opportunity  should  have  been  offered  to  him.  His  life,  she 
knew,  had  been  hard,  he  was,  like  herself,  an  orphan,  and  ho 
hated,  as  she  did,  her  grandmother.  Of  course,  then,  he  in- 
terested her. 

She  did  not  now  say  to  herself  that  if  this  romantic  cousin 
had  not  been  staying  in  that  house  she  would  not  have  con- 
templated a  visit  to  Lizzie.  The  Beaminster  in  her  had  just 
now  the  upper  hand,  and  the  Beaminster  simply  said  that 
Saxton  Square  would  be  a  nice  place  in  which  Uncle  John, 
who  was,  this  afternoon,  taking  her  out  for  a  drive,  might 
leave  her  whilst  he  went  to  the  club;  later  he  could  pick  her 
up  and  take  her  home. 

The  Beaminster  part  of  her  did  not  acknowledge  the  cousin. 

Quite  casually  she  said  to  Uncle  John,  "  I  want  you  to 


THE  GOLDEN  CAGE  111 

leave  me  at  Miss  Rand's  for  half  an  hour  this  afternoon  — 
she  is  helping  me  about  some  clothes." 

JSTow  Uncle  John  had  during  these  last  "weeks  continually 
congratulated  himself  on  the  disappearance  of  Rachel's 
irritable,  unsettled  self.  Always  lately  one  had  been  pre- 
sented with  her  delightful  young  eager  self  and  always  she 
had  been  anxious  to  agree  with  Uncle  John's  proposals.  The 
•world  had  been  going  smoothly  for  him  in  other  ways  of  late, 
and  no  one  had  been  disagreeable.  How  pleasant  to  keep  the 
world  in  this  amiable  condition  and  how  dangerous  to  risk 
anyone's  displeasure ! 

He  had  moreover  almost  (not  quite)  forgotten  that  his 
rascal  of  a  nephew  was  living  in  the  same  house  as  Miss  Rand, 
and,  even  if  he  did  remember  it,  well,  it  was  quite  another 
part  of  the  house,  and  in  all  probability  Miss  Rand  had  never 
spoken  to  Frank  Breton,  nor  so  much  as  said  good  day  to  him. 

Finally  it  was  so  sumptuous  a  day,  and  Rachel  was  clothed 
in  so  radiant  a  happiness  and  so  fluttering  and  billowing  and 
chuckling  a  dress  of  white  and  blue,  and  he  himself  was  look- 
ing so  handsome  in  the  most  shining  of  top-hats,  the  broadest 
of  black  bow  ties,  the  most  elegant  of  pepper-and-salt  trousers 
and  the  whitest  of  white  spats,  that  complaining  or  arguing  or 
disputing  was  utterly  out  of  the  question. 

"  Miss  Rand's,  my  dear  ?  What's  the  address  ?  .  .  .  Right 
you  are  — "  so  off  they  went. 

She  arrived  to  find  Miss  Rand,  a  round  chubby  lady  in 
bright  pink,  and  a  stranger  having  tea  together.  The  chubby 
lady  was  Mrs.  Rand  and  the  stranger  was  Francis  Breton. 
She  had  not  expected  that  her  arrival  would  cause  such  a  dis- 
turbance, nor  that  she  herself  would  discover  the  right  and 
easy  words  so  difficult  to  say.  The  little  room  seemed  to 
be  crowded  with  furniture  and  tea-things,  and  she,  quite  de- 
liberately, put  off  any  consideration  of  her  cousin  until  the 
atmosphere  had  been  allowed,  a  little,  to  settle  around  them. 

Miss  Rand  looked  at  her  almost  sternly  and  was,  plainly, 
at  a  loss.     Mrs.  Rand  was  excited,  and  so  nervous  that  her 


112  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

tea-cup  rattled  in  her  saucer  and  she  stayed  for  quite  a  long 
time  "with  her  finger  in  the  tea  under  the  delusion  that  she 
•was  using  a  teaspoon. 

Mrs.  Eand's  absence  of  mind  was  generally  due  to  the  fact 
that  she  read  one  novel  a  day  all  the  year  round  and  that  her 
thoughts,  her  hopes,  her  despairs  were  always  centred  in  the 
book  of  the  day,  although  when  to-morrow  came  she  could 
not  tell  you  the  author  nor  the  title  nor  any  of  the  incidents. 
Had  she  been  to  a  play,  then,  for  twenty-four  hours  following, 
it  was  the  drama  that  held  the  field. 

She  spent  her  life  in  an  amiable  desire  to  remember,  for  the 
sake  of  her  friends,  the  plays  and  books  of  the  past.  But  she 
was  never  successful.  As  she  said,  "  The  attempt  to  keep  up 
with  the  literature  and  drama  of  the  day,  although  praise- 
worthy, demands  all  one's  time  and  energy." 

The  Beaminster  family  alone  of  all  other  interests  in  the 
wide  world  might  be  calculated  to  draw  her  out  of  the  realms 
of  the  imagination,  and  Rachel's  entrance  scattered  all  plots 
to  the  four  winds. 

Rachel  sat  down  and,  for  a  little  while,  Mrs.  Rand  held  the 
field.  She  told  them  all  that  this  visit  of  Miss  Beaminster 
was  the  most  wonderful  and  unexpected  thing,  that  it  was  like 
a  novel,  and  that  she  would  never  forget  it.  "  But  I  always 
do  say,  Miss  Beaminster,  that  it's  the  unexpected  that  hap- 
pens. Life's  stranger  than  fiction  is  my  opinion,  and  I  don't 
care  who  contradicts  me  I  shall  still  hold  it." 

At  length  Rachel  had  leisure  to  consider  her  cousin  and 
then  was,  instantly,  convinced  that  she  had  met  him  before. 
She  also  knew  that  she  could  not  have  met  him  before. 

In  the  strangest  way  he  was  connected  with  those  early 
dream  years  which,  now,  she  struggled  so  sternly  to  forget. 
The  snow,  the  bleak  sky,  the  silence,  the  sleigh-bells,  some 
strange  voice  speaking  high  in  air  as  though  from  a  distant 
summit,  and  all  this  coming  to  her  with  a  poignancy  that, 
even  now,  brought  the  tears  to  her  heart  and  filled  it  to  over- 
flowing. 


THE  GOLDEN  CAGE  11« 

As  she  saw  his  thin  body,  his  eyes,  his  head  and  the  attitude 
of  the  boy  in  all  his  movements  and  gestures  she  knew  that, 
for  her,  he  belonged  to  that  earlier  world.  She  knew  it  so 
certainly  that,  although  he  had  not  yet  spoken,  she  could  be 
sure  of  the  exact  quality  that  his  voice  would  have. 

And  confused  with  this  recognition  of  him  was  the  alarm 
that  she  always  felt  when  her  early  life  returned  to  her. 

Also  she  was  young  enough  to  be  pleased  at  the  agitation 
into  which  her  coming  had  thrown  him.  It  meant,  plainly, 
so  much  to  him ;  although  he  was  silent  he  leant  forward  in 
his  chair,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  waiting  for  his  oppor- 
tunity. 

Miss  Eand,  watching  him,  saw  how  tremendously  this  meet- 
ing with  one  of  the  family  excited  him,  and,  seeing  him,  her 
heart  filled  with  pity.  "  He's  so  young.  It  is  hard.  He  does 
"^v^ant  someone  to  look  after  him." 

Eachel's  happiness  had,  now,  returned  to  her.  She  liked 
them  all  so  much,  it  was  all  so  cosy,  it  was  so  good  of  them  to 
wish  to  see  her.  She  talked  with  Mrs.  Rand  about  the  theatre 
and  the  opera. 

"  We're  going  to  the  opera  to-night  —  the  Meistersinger. 
I've  heard  it  in  Munich  twice,  but  never  vdth  Van  Rooy, 
who's  singing  to-night.  I  believe  that's  an  experience  one 
never  forgets " 

Mrs.  Rand  did  not  really  care  about  opera ;  everything  in 
opera  happened  so  slowly,  except  in  Carmen,  and  even  that 
was  better  simply  as  a  play.  She  liked  musical  comedy  be- 
cause there  you  could  laugh,  or  plays  like  The  Mikado,  for 
instance. 

She  was  vague  as  to  the  Meistersinger  and  she  had  never 
heard  of  Van  Rooy,  but  she  said,  "  I  agree  with  you,  Miss 
Beaminster.     There's  nobody  like  him." 

At  that  Breton  struck  in  with  something  about  music  that 
he  had  heard  in  strange  places  abroad,  and  then  Rachel,  look- 
ing in  his  face  for  the  first  time,  asked  him  about  his  travels. 

As  their  eyes  and  voices  met  she  was  again  overwhelmed 


114  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

with  the  vivid  consciousness  of  their  earlier  meeting.  She 
thought,  "  If  I  were  to  ask  him  whether  he  remembered  that 
same  snow  and  silence  he  would  say  yes  —  I  know  he  would 
say  yes." 

Miss  Rand,  with  eyes  that  were  kind  but  very,  very  sharp, 
watched  them.  She  noticed  the  eagerness  of  Breton  and 
wished  that  he  did  not  seem  quite  so  anxious  to  please.  "  But 
that's  because  he's  young,"  she  thought  again. 

And,  now  that  he  had  begun,  the  words  poured  from  him. 
With  gesticulation  that  was  faintly  foreign,  ever  so  little 
dramatic,  he  unpacked  his  adventures.  He  spoke  as  though 
this  were,  beyond  all  time,  the  moment  when  he  must  make 
his  effect. 

He  did  it  well,  a  bom  teller  of  tales.  And  yet  Miss  Rand 
wished  that  he  had  not  had  to  do  it  at  all,  that  there  had  been 
more  reserve,  less  drama,  less  volubility. 

Mrs.  Rand,  an  older  Desdemona,  listened  spellbound. 
This  was  as  good  as  getting  a  circulating  library  without 
paying  a  subscription.  As  she  said  to  her  daughter  after- 
wards :  "  He  really  was  as  good  as  those  novels  by  what's  his 
name  —  you  know  who  I  mean  —  those  delightful  stories 
about  those  foreign  places  —  and  the  sea.'* 

He  spoke  of  the  first  time  that  he  had  actually  been  con- 
scious of  the  jungle.  "  Of  course  I'd  been  into  it  dozens  of 
times  —  often  and  often.  But  there  was  a  day  —  I  remem- 
ber as  though  it  were  yesterday  —  when  we  went  up  in  a  boat 
—  some  river  or  another  —  That  river  was  the  most  secret 
and  sleepy  green,  and  the  place  all  closed  about  it  as  though 
we'd  gone  into  a  box,  and  they'd  closed  the  lid.  I^othing  but 
the  green  river  and  all  the  forest  getting  closer  and  closer  and 
darker  and  darker,  all  blacker  than  you  can  imagine,  and 
worse  still  when  it  was  lighter  —  a  kind  of  twilight  —  and 
you  could  see  enough  to  make  you  shiver  —  no  sound  but  the 
animals,  and  the  branches  and  the  great  plants  and  brilliant 
flowers  all  creeping  and  crawling  —  Suddenly  —  all  in  a 
flash  —  I  wanted  a  lamp-post  and  a  public  house,  a  wet  night 


TEE  GOLDEl^  CAGE  115 

shining  on  streets,  the  rattle  of  a  hansom  —  I  was  suddenly 
ghastly  frightened,  and  we  got  deeper  and  deeper  intc  it,  and 
human  beings  further  and  further  behind,  and  only  the 
beastly  monkeys  and  the  alligators  and  the  hideous  flowers. 
I  can  feel  it  still " 

Eachel  was  enthralled.  He  called  up,  on  every  side  about 
her,  that  stern  life  of  hers.  He  knew  and  she  knew  —  they 
alone  out  of  all  the  world.  All  her  gaiety,  her  happiness,  her 
interest  of  the  last  weeks  went  now  for  nothing  beside  this 
experience.  He  was  not  now  related  to  the  Beaminsters  — - 
to  Grandmother,  to  Aunt  Adela,  to  Uncle  John  —  but  to  her 
and  to  that  part  of  her  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Bea- 
minsters at  all.  The  room,  the  commonplace  furniture,  the 
pictures  of  "  Lodore  Falls  "  and  "  The  Fighting  Temeraire," 
the  little  glimpses  of  the  square  beyond  the  window,  these 
things  shared  in  the  mystery. 

Miss  Band  had  seen  her  caught  and  held.  "She's  very 
young  too,"  she  said  to  herself  a  little  grimly  and  a  little 
tenderly  also  — "  All  too  sensational  to  be  true,"  she  thought. 
"  There's  a  little  bit  of  unreality  in  him  all  the  way  through." 

Mrs.  Rand  said :  "  What  do  you  think  of  alligators.  Miss 
Beaminster?  Don't  you  agree  with  me  that  they  must  be 
most  unpleasant  to  meet?  I  always  dislike  their  sluggish 
ways  when  I  see  them  in  the  Zoological  Gardens." 

Then  upon  them  all  broke  the  little  maid  with  a  husky 
"  Miss  Beaminster's  carriage,  please,  mem." 

Eachel,  as  she  said  good-bye,  was  aware  of  him  again  as 
"  her  scandalous  cousin."  He  too  was  now  awkward  and 
embarrassed.  They  said  good-bye  hurriedly  and  there  was 
between  them  both  a  consciousness  that  no  word  of  the  family 
or  their  relationship  had  been  mentioned. 

"  "Well,"  said  Mrs.  Rand,  when  the  door  was  closed,  "  no 
one  in  the  world  could  have  been  pleasanter.  .  .  ." 


J116  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

in 

They  did  not  arrive  at  the  opera  that  night  until  the  begin* 
ning  of  the  second  act.  It  was  Lady  Carloes'  box  and  she  and 
Uncle  John  and  Eoddy  Seddon  were  Rachel's  companions. 

All  the  way  home  in  the  carriage  Eachel  had  been  silent 
and  Lord  John,  perceiving  uneasily  that  some  of  the  old 
Rachel  was  back  again,  had  said  very  little. 

Her  mind  was  confused.  At  one  moment  she  felt  that  she 
did  not  want  to  see  him  again,  that  he  disturbed  her  peace 
and  worried  her  with  memories  that  were  better  forgotten. 
At  another  moment  she  could  have  returned,  then  and  there, 
to  ask  him  questions,  to  know  whether  he  felt  this  or  that: 
had  he  ever  pictured  such  a  place  ?     Had  he  ...  ? 

And  then  sharply  she  dismissed  such  thoughts.  She  would 
think  of  him  no  more  —  and  yet  he  did  not  look  a  villain. 
How  delightful  to  persuade  the  family  to  take  him  back. 
Why  should  she  not  help  towards  a  reconciliation  ?  She  was 
herself  so  happy  now  that  she  could  not  bear  that  anyone 
should  feel  outcast  or  lonely  —  they  were  all  very  hard  upon 
him. 

It  was  not  until  she  heard  the  voices  of  the  apprentices 
that  thought  of  her  cousin  left  her.  As  she  groped  her  way 
in  the  dark  box  and  heard  Lady  Carloes'  stuffy  whisper  (she 
had  the  voice  of  a  cracknel  biscuit),  "You  sit  there,  my 
dear  —  Lord  John  here.  That's  right  —  I  knew  you'd  be 
late  because  .  .  ."  she  was  gloriously  aware  that  quite  close 
to  her  the  music  that  she  loved  best  in  all  the  world  was  trans- 
forming existence.  She  touched  Roddy's  hand  and  then 
surrendered  herself. 

She  had  been  to  Covent  Garden  now  on  four  or  five  occa- 
sions and  from  the  first  the  shabby  building  with  its  old  red 
and  gold,  its  air  of  belonging  to  any  period  earlier  than  the 
one  it  was  just  then  assuming,  its  attitude,  above  all,  of  in- 
difference to  its  aspect  —  all  this  had  attracted  her  and  won 
her  affection.     London,  she  discovered,  was  always  best  when 


THE  GOLDEN  CAGE  llT 

it  was  shabbiest  and  one  could  not  praise  it  more  highly  than 
bj  declaring,  with  perfect  truth,  that  it  was  the  shabbiest  city 
in  the  world.  ISTow,  feeling  instinctively  that  English  ap- 
prentices (she  had  had  already  some  taste  of  the  Covent  Gar- 
den chorus)  would  act  too  much  or  too  little,  she  closed  her 


Now,  as  the  music  reached  her,  the  old  red  and  gold  seemed 
a  cage,  swinging,  swinging  higher  and  ever  higher  with  old 
Lady  Carloes  and  Roddy  Seddon  and  all  the  brilliant  people 
in  the  stalls,  and  all  the  enthusiastic  people  in  the  gallery, 
swinging,  swinging  inside  it.  She  could  feel  the  lift  of  it, 
the  rise  and  fall,  and  almost  the  clearer  air  about  her  as  it 
rose  into  the  stars. 

Then  there  came  to  her  the  voice  for  which  she  had  surely 
all  her  days  been  waiting.  It  enwrapped  her  round  and 
comforted  her,  consoled  her  for  all  her  sorrows,  reassured  her 
for  all  her  fears.  It  filled  the  cage  and  the  air  beyond  the 
cage,  it  was  of  earth  and  of  heaven,  and  of  all  things  good  and 
beautiful  in  this  world  and  the  next. 

For  the  second  time  to-day  her  early  years  came  back  to 
her;  the  voice  had  in  it  all  those  hours  when  someone's 
tenderness  had  made  Life  worth  living.  "  Life  is  immortal," 
it  cried.  "  And  I  am  immortal,  for  I  am  Love  and  Charity, 
and,  whatever  the  wise  ones  may  tell  you,  I  cannot  die."  Sho 
felt  again  the  space  and  the  silence  and  the  snow,  but  now 
with  no  alarm,  only  utter  reassurance.  And  the  cage  swung 
up  and  up  and  there  were  now  only  the  stars  and  the  wind 
around  and  about  them. 

Then,  in  an  instant  of  time,  the  cage,  with  a  crash,  was 
upon  the  ground.  Across  her  world  had  cut  Lady  Carloes' 
voice  — "  Oh  yes,  and  there's  Lord  Crewner  —  no,  not  in  that 
row  —  the  one  behind  —  next  that  woman  with  the  silver 
thing  in  her  hair  —  four  from  the  end " 

And  Roddy  Seddon's  voice  — "  Yes,  I  see  him.  Who's  he 
got  with  him  ?  " 

Lady  Carloes  again ;     "  I  can't  quite  see  —  Miss  Mendle 


118  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

as  likely  as  not  .  .  .  You  know,  old  Aggie  Mendle's  daugh- 
ter. ..." 

Rachel  felt  in  that  moment  that  murder  was  assuredly  no 
crime.  Her  hands  shook  on  her  lap  and  one  of  those  pas- 
sions, that  she  had  not  known  for  many  months,  caught  her 
60  that  she  could  have  torn  Lardy  Carloes'  hair  from  her  head 
had  the  chairs  been  happily  arranged. 

Fortunately  the  interruption  had  been  accompanied  by 
Beckmesser's  entrance :  that  other  voice  was,  for  the  moment, 
still.  Then,  as  Sachs  caught  up  Beckmesser's  serenade,  there 
came  again: 

"  Well,  of  course  if  you  can't  go  that  week-end  I  dare  say 
she'll  give  you  another.  Only  I  know  she's  settling  her  dates 
now." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  a  bore  havin'  to  fix  up  such  a  long  way  ahead 
and  you  don't  know  what  old  stumers  you  mayn't  be  boxed 
up  with ^" 

Oh!  It  was  abominable  I  She  had  been  seeing  a  great 
deal  of  Roddy  during  these  last  weeks,  and  ever  since  that 
visit  to  Uncle  Richard  she  had  been  conscious  of  an  intimacy 
that  she  had  certainly  not  resented. 

But  any  favour  that  he  may  have  had  with  her  was  cer- 
tainly now  forfeited.  His  voice  was  again  superior  to  Beck- 
messer : 

"  And  so  of  course  I  said  that  if  they  mould  go  to  such 
shockin'  rot  I  wasn't  goin'  to  waste  my  evenin's " 

She  pushed  her  chair  back  against  his  knees :  "  Beg  par- 
don, Miss  Beaminster,  afraid  I  jolted  you " 

"  Oh  I     Keep  quiet !     Keep  quiet !  " 

Her  whisper  was  so  urgent,  so  packed  with  irritation  that 
instantly  there  was,  in  the  box,  the  deepest  of  silences. 

She  sat  forward  again,  anger  choking  her:  she  could  not 
recover  any  illusion.  She  hated  him,  hated  him!  The 
crowd  came  on  with  a  whirl.  Then  there  was  that  last  mo- 
ment when  the  old  watchman  cries  to  the  genial  moon  and 
the  silvered  roofs. 


THE  GOLDEN"  CAGE  119; 

Then  the  curtain  fell. 

Without  a  word,  her  face  white,  her  hands  still  trembling, 
she  rose  to  leave  the  box.  She  passed  out  into  the  passage 
and  found  that  Roddy  was  by  her  side. 

"  I  say,  Miss  Beajuinster,  I  am  most  awfully  sorry,  most 
awfully.  I  hadn't  any  idea,  really,  that  I  was  kickin'  up 
that  row.     I  could  have  hit  myself." 

She  walked  down  the  passage  and  he  followed  her.  She 
was  superb,  she  was  indeed,  with  her  head  up,  that  neck, 
those  hands,  those  flashing  eyes.  He  had  never  seen  anyone 
so  fine.  She  ought  always  to  be  enraged.  That  instant  de- 
cided him.  She  was  the  woman  for  a  man  to  have  for  his 
own,  someone  who  could  look  like  someone  at  the  head  of  your 
table,  someone  with  the  right  blood  in  her  veins,  some- 
one .  .  . 

"  I  could  heat  myself,"  he  said  again. 

"  How  dared  you "  she  broke  out  at  last.     They  were, 

by  good  luck,  alone  in  the  passage.  "  How  could  you  3 
What  do  you  come  for  if  you  care  nothing  for  music  at  all  ? 
If  you  can  hear  a  voice  like  that  and  then  talk  about  your  own 
silly  little  affairs.  .  .  .  And  the  selfishness  of  it !  Of  course 
you  think  of  nobody  but  yourself !  " 

"  Upon  my  word.  Miss  Beaminster !  " 

"  No,  I've  no  patience  with  you.  Go  to  your  musical 
comedy  if  you  like,  but  leave  music  like  this  for  people  who 
can  appreciate  it !  " 

Oh !  she  was  superb !  Entirely  superb !  She  ought  to  be 
like  this  every  day  of  her  life!  To  think  that  he  should 
have  the  chance  of  winning  such  a  prize ! 

Nevertheless  she  would  not  speak  to  him  again  and  they 
went  back  to  the  box.  She  would  not  speak  to  Lady  Carloes 
nor  to  her  uncle. 

Then  as  the  loveliest  music  in  all  opera  flooded  the  building 
her  anger  began  to  melt. 

He  had  looked  so  charmingly  repentant  and,  after  all,  the 
Meistersinger  was  long  for  anyone  who  did  not  really  care  for 


120  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

music  —  and  then  they  all  did  talk.  It  was  only  in  the  gal- 
lery that  one  found  the  proper  reverence. 

Her  anger  cooled  and  then  descended  upon  her  the  quintet, 
and  she  was  once  again  swept,  in  her  cage,  to  the  stars. 

Now  she  and  all  live  things  seemed  to  be  opening  their 
hearts  together  to  God  —  no  shame  now  to  speak  of  one's 
deepest  and  most  sacred  thoughts.  No  fear  now  of  God  nor 
the  Archangels  nor  all  the  long  spaces  of  Immortality.  The 
cage  had  ascended  to  the  highest  of  all  the  Heavens,  and  there, 
for  a  moment,  one  might  stand,  worshipping,  with  bowed 
head. 

The  quintet  ceased  and  Rachel  felt  that  she  could  never  be 
angry  with  anyone  again.     She  wished  to  tell  him  so. 

At  last,  the  revels  were  over,  the  "  Prieslied  "  had  won  its 
praises,  Sachs  had  been  acclaimed  by  his  world,  and  they  were 
all  in  the  lobby,  waiting  for  carriages,  talking,  laughing, 
hurrying  to  the  restaurants. 

Her  face  was  lighted  now  with  happiness.  She  touched 
his  arm. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  angry  —  like  that.  It  was  silly  and 
rude  of  me.     Forgive  me,  please " 

He  turned,  stuttering.  "  Forgive  you !  "  He  took  her 
hand  — "  I  ought  to  have  been  shot  —  Yes,  I'll  never  forgive 

myself.     You  —  you "     And    then    he    could    say    no 

more,  but  suddenly,  raising  his  hat,  bolted  away. 

As  the  door  swung  behind  him  Lady  Carloes  turned  a  per- 
plexed face  — 

"  Why !  he  said  good  night !  And  now  I  shall  never 
find " 

But  Lord  John  appeared  just  then  and  all  was  well. 

Going  back,  in  the  dark  brougham,  Rachel  put  her  head  on 
her  uncle's  shoulder  and,  exhausted  with  excitement  and 
happiness  and  something  more  than  either  of  them,  cried  her 
eyes  away. 


CHAPTER  X 

LIZZIE  AND  BRETON 

**What  of  Adam  cast  out  of  Eden? 
(And  O  the  Bower  and  the  hour!) 
Lo!   with  care  like  a  shadow  shaken 
He  kills  the  hard  earth  whence  he  was  taken." 

Dante  Gabbhx  Rossetti. 


TO  the  ordinary  observer  Lizzie  Eand  was,  during  that 
hot  July,  as  she  had  ever  been. 

The  servants  in  104  Portland  Place  could  detect  no  change, 
but  then  they  did  not  search  for  one,  having  long  regarded 
Miss  Rand  as  a  piece  of  machinery,  symbolized  by  that  broad 
shining  belt  of  hers,  happily  calculated  to  fit,  precisely, 
the  duties  for  which  it  was  required. 

But  Miss  Rand  herself  knew  that  there  was  a  sharp,  ac^ 
curate,  shrewd  piece  of  machinery  named  Miss  Rand,  and  a 
breathing,  emotional,  uncertain  human  being  called  Lizzie. 
There  had  always  been  those  two,  but  since  the  inadequacy  of 
her  mother  and  sister  had  been  confronted  with  the  stem 
necessity  of  making  two  ends  meet.  Miss  Rand  had  been  in 
constant  demand  and  Lizzie  had  only,  by  her  occasional  ob- 
trusion, made  life  complicated  and  disturbing. 

Miss  Rand  had  told  herself  that  Lizzie  was  now  almost  an 
anachronism,  that  the  emotions  in  life  that  aroused  her  were 
bad  cheap  emotions,  and  that  this  was  an  age  that  demanded 
increasingly  of  women  a  hard  practical  efficiency  without 
sentiments  or  enthusiasms. 

These  forcible  arguments  had  for  a  time  kept  Lizzie  in  a 
darkened  background;  it  was  some  years  since  Miss  Rand 
bad  been  disturbed.  But  now  in  the  warm  weather  of  1898 
Lizzie  had  not  only  reappeared,  but  had  leapt,  an  insistent, 

121 


122  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

shining  presemce,  into  urgent  life.  Miss  Rand  faced  her — ■ 
what  had  created  her?  A  little,  the  weather,  the  beauty  of 
those  brazen  days  —  A  little,  Rachel's  coming  out  into  the 
world,  an  adventure  that  had  stirred  the  whole  house  into  a 
new  and  sympathetic  excitement  —  a  little,  these  things. 
But  chiefly,  and  no  pretence  nor  shame  could  conceal  the  fact, 
did  this  new  Lizzie  owe  her  creation  to  the  appearance  of 
Francis  Breton. 

Lizzie  Rand  had  had,  from  her  birth,  a  romantic  heart; 
she  had  had  also  a  prosaic  practical  exterior,  and  a  mind  as 
hard  and  clear,  if  necessary,  as  her  own  most  lucent  type- 
writer. 

The  romantic  heart  had,  throughout  these  years,  been  there, 
and  now  this  romantic,  scandalous,  youthful,  engaging  un- 
fortunate had  called  it  out. 

She  was  never  so  warmly  attracted  as  by  someone  lacking, 
most  obviously,  in  those  qualities  with  which  she  herself 
abounded.  That  people  should  be  foolish,  impetuous,  care- 
less, haphazard  commended  them  straight  to  her  keeping. 
"  Poor  dears "  had  their  instant  claim  upon  her.  Her 
mother  and  sister  were  "  poor  dears  "  and  she  had  suffered 
from  them  now  during  many  years.  Francis  Breton  was 
most  assuredly  a  "  poor  dear !  " 

Here  the  Duchess  a  little  flung  her  shadow  and  confused 
the  mind.  Although  Lizzie  had  never  seen  that  splendid 
figure  she  was,  nevertheless,  acutely  conscious  of  her.  She 
was  conscious  of  her  through  her  own  imagination,  through 
her  mother,  finally  through  Lady  Adela. 

Her  imagination  painted  the  old  lady,  the  room,  the  furni- 
ture fantastic,  strangely  coloured,  always  with  dramatic  ef- 
fect. Her  picture  was  never  precisely  defined,  but  in  its 
very  vagueness  lay  its  terrors  and  its  omens. 

Miss  Rand,  the  most  practical  and  collected  of  young 
women,  could  never  pass  the  Duchess's  door  without  a 
*'  creep." 

Through  her  mother  the  Duchess  came  to  her  as  the  head  of 


LIZZIE  AND  BEETON  123 

society.  Society  had  never  troubled  Lizzie's  visions  of  Life. 
She  had,  in  her  years  with  the  Beaminsters,  seen  it  pass  be- 
fore her  with  all  its  comedy  and  pathos,  and  the  figures  that 
had  been  concerned  in  that  procession  had  seemed  to  her 
exactly  like  the  figures  in  any  other  procession  except  that 
they  were  dressed  for  their  especial  "  subject."  But  oddly 
enough  when,  through  her  own  observation,  this  life,  seen 
accurately  at  first  hand,  amounted  only  to  any  other  life,  seen 
through  the  eyes  of  her  mother,  it  achieved  another  size. 

She  knew  that  her  mother  was  a  foolish  woman,  that  her 
mother's  opinions  on  life  were  absurd  and  untrue,  and  yet 
that  dim,  great  figure  that  the  Duchess  assumed  in  her 
mother's  eyes,  in  some  odd  way  impressed  her. 

Lastly,  and  most  strikingly  of  all,  came  Lady  Adela's  con- 
ception to  her.  Lady  Adela  was  in  terror  of  her  mother; 
everyone  knew  it,  friends,  relations,  servants.  Lizzie  herself 
saw  it  in  a  thousand  different  ways  —  saw  it  when  Lady 
Adela  spoke  of  her,  saw  it  in  the  way  that  Lady  Adela  ad- 
dressed Dorchester  when  that  grim  woman  was  interviewed 
by  her,  saw  it  when  Lady  Adela  was  suddenly  summoned  to 
that  room  upstairs. 

Lizzie,  during  the  hours  when  she  was  writing  from  Lady 
Adela's  dictation  or  working  with  her,  found  her  dry,  stupid, 
sometimes  kind,  never  emotional.  It  was  to  her,  therefore, 
the  most  convincing  proof  of  the  Duchess's  power,  this  emo- 
tion, this  alarm  drawn  from  so  dry  a  heart. 

!N'ow  the  influence  that  the  Duchess  had  upon  Lizzie  was 
always  a  confused  one.  Persuasion  from  this  source  followed 
lines  of  reasoning  that  were  false  and  led  to  some  conclusions 
that  were  muddled  and  untrue. 

Through  such  minds  as  her  mother's  and  Lady  Adela's  no 
clear  truth  could  come,  and  yet  it  was  through  such  minds  as 
these  that  the  Duchess's  influence  descended  upon  Lizzie. 

It  descended  now  with  regard  to  Francis  Breton.  It  told 
Lizzie  that  Breton  had  been  proved  by  society  to  be  a  scoun- 
drel, that  he  should  be  no  worthy  man's  friend,  that  he  be- 


124:  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

longed  to  that  world,  the  •world  of  shadows  and  past  mis- 
adventures, that  no  proper  soul  might,  with  honesty, 
investigate. 

This  was  what  the  Duchess  told  to  Lizzie  and  perhaps  by 
so  doing  increased  her  sympathy  with  the  sinner. 


It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Rand  had  not,  at  first, 
been  unsettled  by  scruples. 

The  fact  that  Breton  was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Beaminster 
family,  a  ne'er-do-well  who  had  brought  disgrace  upon  the 
family  name  had,  for  a  time,  distressed  her,  but  the  romantic 
hope  of  being  herself  the  agent  of  his  restoration  to  his  grand- 
mother, and  the  delightful  manners  of  the  scoundrel  when  he 
appeared,  killed  her  alarm.  Mrs.  Rand's  mind  was  a  dark 
misty  place  except  when  the  candles  of  romance  were  lit; 
when  they  flamed,  blown  by  the  wind  though  they  might  be, 
there  was,  around  the  candlesticks  at  any  rate,  a  real  and  even 
splendid  blaze. 

One  afternoon,  towards  the  end  of  July,  Mrs.  Rand  meet- 
ing Breton  on  their  doorstep  was  moved  to  ask  him  whether 
he  would  come  in  and  spend  the  evening  with  them,  if  he  had 
nothing  better  to  do.  They  had  only  a  simple  little  meal, 
and  would  he  please  not  bother  to  dress  ?  Breton  said  that 
he  would  be  delighted. 

Mrs.  Rand  had  been,  that  afternoon,  to  a  romantic  comedy 
in  which  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  French  accents  had  made 
love  and  escaped  together  and  been  caught  together  and  been 
married  together.  Mrs.  Rand  had  gone  quite  alone  into  the 
pit  and  had  returned  with  tears  in  her  eyes  and  affection  for 
all  the  world. 

So  she  had  asked  Mr.  Breton  to  dinner. 

After  a  while,  however,  she  was  a  little  uncertain.  Daisy 
was  away  in  the  country  with  friends.  How  would  Lizzie 
then  like  this  unexpected  visitor?  Mrs.  Rand  was,  quite 
frankly,  frightened  of  Lizzie  and  complained  of  her  a  good 


LIZZIE  AND  BEETON  1^5 

many  times  a  week  to  Daisy.  Lizzie  was  for  ever  interfer- 
ing with  innocent  pleasures ;  Lizzie  was  mean  and  unroman- 
tic  and  unimaginative;  Lizzie  was  thorougKly  tiresome. 

The  fact  that  Lizzie  worked  incessantly  for  her  mother  and 
her  sister  never  occurred  to  Mrs.  Rand  at  all. 

Lizzie  objected  to  all  innocent  amusement  and  she  would, 
in  all  likelihood,  object  now. 

However,  when  Mrs.  Eand  with  a  fearful  mind  said,  "  Oh, 
Lizzie  dear,  Tve  had  such  a  delightful  afternoon.  I  went  to 
Love  and  the  King  and  it  was  too  charming  —  you  ought  to 
go,  really  —  and  Mr.  Breton's  coming  to  dinner  to-night," 
Lizzie  only  smiled  a  little  and  asked  whether  there  was  food 
enough.     Lizzie  was  so  strange.  .  ,  . 

Alone  in  her  bedroom  Lizzie  wondered  at  her  excitement. 
She  looked  at  her  trim,  neat  figure  in  the  glass,  with  the  hair 
so  gravely  brushed,  with  her  collar  and  her  cuffs,  with  her 
compact  businesslike  air :  what  had  she  to  do  with  excitement 
because  a  young  man  was  coming  to  dinner  ?  "  It  must  be 
because  I'm  tired  —  this  heat,"  she  said  to  the  mirror.  And 
the  mirror  replied,  "  You  know  that  you  are  glad  because 
your  sister  Daisy  is  away." 

And  to  that  she  had  no  answer. 

When  he  arrived  he  was  grave  and  seemed  sad  and  tired, 
she  thought.  Dinner  was  a  serious  affair  and  Mrs.  Band, 
who  disliked  people  when  they  refused  to  respond  to  her 
moods,  wished,  at  first,  that  she  had  not  asked  him,  and  felt 
sure  that  there  was  much  truth  in  what  people  said  about  hia 
wickedness. 

Then,  when  dinner  was  nearly  over,  he  brightened  up  and 
told  stories  and  was  entertaining.  Mrs.  Band  noticed  that  he 
drank  much  claret,  but  this  was,  after  all,  a  compliment  to 
her  housekeeping.  By  the  end  of  dinner  Mrs.  Band  almost 
loved  him  and  wished  that  Daisy  had  been  here  to  entertain 
him. 

Of  course  it  must  be  dull  for  a  man  with  only  a  plain  cut- 
and-dried  girl  like  Lizzie  for  company. 


126  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Lizzie,  meanwliile,  knew  that  he  was  waiting  for  an  oppor- 
tunity of  speech.  She  had  read  an  appeal  in  his  eyes  when  he 
had  first  entered  the  room,  and  now  she  sat  there,  curiously, 
ironically  amused  at  her  own  agitation.  "  Lizzie  Rand,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  you're  only,  after  all,  the  kind  of  fool  that 
you  despise  other  people  for  being.  What  are  you  after  in 
this  galere  ?  " 

!N"evertheless  even  now,  in  retrospect,  how  arid  and  sterile 
seemed  all  those  other  active  useful  days.  One  moment's 
little  grain  of  sentiment  and  a  life's  hard  work  goes  for  noth- 
ing in  comparison. 

After  dinner,  when  the  lamp  burnt  brightly  and  the  furni- 
ture seemed  to  be  less  anxious  to  fill  every  possible  space  and 
the  windows  were  opened  into  the  square  with  its  stars  and 
grey  shadows,  the  room  seemed,  of  a  sudden,  comfortable,  and 
Mrs.  Rand,  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  with  a  novel  on  her  lap 
and  spectacles  on  her  nose,  was  almost  cosy.  She  had  left, 
before  going  to  her  matinee,  Jud  a  Heroine  at  one  of  its  most 
thrilling  crises,  and  Lizzie  knew  that  the  talk  with  Breton 
depended  for  its  very  existence  on  the  relative  strength  of 
the  play  and  the  novel.  If  Love  and  the  King  were  the  more 
powerful,  then  would  Mrs.  Rand  make  a  discursive  third. 
But  no,  for  a  moment  there  was  a  pause,  then,  indecisively, 
Mrs.  Rand  took  up  her  book.  For  a  while  she  talked  to 
Breton  over  its  pages,  then  the  light  of  excitement  stole  into 
her  eyes,  her  soul  was  netted  by  the  snarer,  Breton  was  for- 
gotten as  though  he  had  never  been. 

Their  chairs  were  by  the  open  window  and  a  very  little 
breeze  came  and  played  around  them.  In  the  square  there 
was  that  sense  of  some  imminent  occurrence,  a  breathless 
suggestion  of  suspense,  that  a  hot  evening  sometimes  carries 
with  it.  The  stars  blazed  in  a  purple  sky  and  a  moon  was 
full  rounded,  a  plate  of  gold;  beneath  such  splendour  the 
square  was  cool  and  dim. 

"  You  mustn't  think  mother  rude,"  Lizzie  said  with  a  little 


LIZZIE  AND  BRETON  12^ 

smile.  "  If  she  once  gets  deep  into  a  book  nothing  can  tear 
her  from  it." 

He  said  something,  but  she  could  see  that  he  was  not  think- 
ing of  Mrs.  Rand.  It  was  always  in  the  evening,  she  thought, 
when  uncertain  colours  and  shadows  filled  the  air,  that  he 
looked  his  best  He  touched,  now,  as  he  had  touched  on  that 
day  of  their  first  meeting,  a  note  of  something  fine  and  strange 
—  someone,  very  young  and  perhaps  very  foolish  and  impetu- 
ous, but  someone  armoured  in  courage  and  set  apart  for  some 
great  purpose. 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  flinging,  every  now  and  again, 
little  restless  glances  beyond  the  window,  pulling  sometimes 
at  his  beard,  answering  her  absent-mindedly.  Then  sud- 
denly he  began,  fiercely,  looking  away  from  her  — 

"  Miss  Rand,  I've  got  an  apology  to  make  to  you " 

His  voice  was  so  low  that  she  could  only  catch  the  words 
by  leaning  forward  — "  To  me  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  I've  been  wanting  to  speak  all  these  weeks.  It 
seemed  right  enough  before,  but  since  I've  known  you  I've 
felt  ashamed  of  it  —  as  though  I'd  done  something  wrong." 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Breton  ? "  Her  clear  grave  eyes  en- 
couraged him. 

"  Why  —  I  came  to  this  house,  took  my  rooms,  simply 
because  I  knew  that  you  were  here " 

"  That  I  was  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  was  looking  about  in  this  part  of  the  world  for 
rooms.  I  wanted  to  be  —  near  Portland  Place,  you  know, 
I  came  here  and  old  Mrs.  Tweed  talked  a  lot  and  then,  after 
a  time,  I  said  something  —  about  my  grandmother.  And 
then  she  told  me  that  someone  who  lived  here  did  secretarial 
work  for  my  aunt " 

He  stopped  abruptly. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Lizzie,  laughing.  "  All  this  is  not  very 
terrible." 

"  Then,  you  see,  I  determined  to  stay.     I  was  full  of 


128  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

absurd  ideas  just  at  tlie  time,  thought  that  I  was  going  to 
take  some  great  revenge  —  I  was  quite  melodramatic.  And 
so  I  thought  that  I'd  use  you,  get  to  know  you  and  then, 
through  you  —  do  something  or  another." 

Lizzie  eyed  him  with  merriment.  "  Upon  my  word,  what 
were  you  going  to  make  me  do?  Carry  bombs  into  your 
aunt's  bedroom  or  set  fire  to  the  Portland  Place  house  ?  Tell 
me,  I  should  like  to  know " 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  it's  all  very  well  for  you  to  laugh.  It's 
very  kind  of  you  to  take  it  that  way,  but  lots  of  women 
wouldn't  have  liked  it.  They'd  have  thought  it  another  of 
the  things  I'm  always  accused  of  doing,  I  suppose." 

"  !N"o,"  said  Lizzie  gravely,  "  it  was  all  perfectly  naturaL 
I  understand.  I  should  have  done  just  the  same  kind  of 
thing,  I  expect,  if  I'd  been  in  your  place." 

The  fierceness  of  his  voice  showed  Iier  that  he  had  been 
brooding  for  weeks,  and  that  life  was,  just  now,  harder  than 
he  could  endure. 

"  You  can  trust  me  a  great  deal  farther  than  that,  Mr. 
Breton,"  she  said. 

"  The  other  night,"  he  began,  "  you  said  that  I  might  talk 
to  you.  I've  been  pretty  lonely  lately  —  and  it  would  help 
me  if " 

"  Anything  you  like,"  she  assured  him. 

"  Besides,  there's  more  than  that,"  he  went  on.  "  You've 
heard  —  of  course  you  must  have  heard  all  kinds  of  things 
against  me.  You're  in  the  enemy's  camp  and  I  don't  suppose 
they  measure  their  words.  I  don't  know  why  you've  been  so 
decent  to  me  as  you  have  after  what  you  must  have 
heard " 

"  Don't  worry  your  head  about  that,"  she  said.  ''  We  all 
have  our  enemies." 

"  No,  but  now  that  we're  friends  I'd  like  you  to  know  my 
side  of  it  all.  I  don't  want  to  make  myself  out  a  hero  or 
blacken  all  the  other  people,  but  there  is  something  to  be 
said  for  m©  —  there  is  —  there  is " 


LIZZIE  AHB  BKETON  129 

He  muttered  these  last  words  with  the  deepest  intensity. 
He  seemed  to  fling  them  through  the  window  into  the  square, 
as  though  he  were  standing  out  there,  on  his  defence,  before 
all  those  listening  lighted  windows. 

"  I've  been  a  fool  —  a  thousand  times.  IVe  done  silly 
things  often  and  once  or  twi(^  bad,  rotten  things,  but  all 
these  others  —  these  virtuous  people  who  are  so  ready  to  judge 
me,  have  they  been  any  better  ? 

"  My  father  was  a  scoundrel,  although  I  loved  him  and 
would  love  him  now  if  he  came  back  —  but  he  was  just  as 
bad  as  they  make  'em  and  there's  no  use  in  denying  it.  He'd 
tell  you  so  himself  if  he  were  here.  He  broke  my  poor 
mother's  heart  and  killed  her.  I  don't  remember  her  —  I 
was  no  age  at  all  when  she  died  —  but  I've  got  an  old  picture 
of  her,  kept  it  always  with  me;  she  must  have  been  rather 
like  my  cousin  Rachel,  who  was  here  the  other  day " 

Lizzie  watched  his  face.  There  had  left  him  now  all  that 
hint  of  insincerity,  of  exaggeration  that  she  had  noticed  when 
he  had  talked  before.  She  knew  that  he  was  telling  her  now 
absolutely  the  truth  as  he  saw  it. 

"  She  died  and  after  that  I  was  taken  about  Europe  with 
my  father.  We  lived  in  almost  every  capital  in  Europe  — 
Berlin,  Paris,  Rome,  Vienna,  everywhere.  Sometimes  we 
were  rich,  sometimes  poor.  Sometimes  we  knew  the  very 
best  people,  sometimes  the  very  worst.  Sometimes  I'd  go  to 
school  for  a  little,  then  I'd  suddenly  be  taken  away.  My 
father  was  splendid  to  me  then;  the  best-looking  man  you 
ever  saw,  tall,  broad,  carried  himself  magnificently  —  the 
finest  man  in  Europe.  I  only  knew,  bit  by  bit,  the  things 
that  he  used  to  do.  It  was  cards  most  of  the  time,  and  he 
taught  me  to  play,  of  course,  as  he  taught  me  to  do  everything 
else. 

"  When  I  was  eighteen  my  eyes  were  opened  —  I  tried  to 
leave  him  —  But  I  loved  him  and  I  verily  believe  that  I  was 
the  only  human  being  in  the  world  that  he  cared  for.  Any- 
way, he  died  of  fever  and  general  dissipation  when  I  had  just 


130  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

come  of  age,  and  I  came  home  to  England  with  a  little  montiy 
and  great  hopes  of  putting  myself  right  with  the  world." 

As  he  had  talked  to  her  he  had  gathered  confidence;  her 
silence  was,  in  some  way  to  him,  reassuring  and  comforting. 
Some  p  -ople  have  the  gift  of  listening  without  words  so 
warmly,  with  such  eloquence  that  they  reassure  and  console 
as  no  speech  could  ever  do.  This  was  Lizzie's  gift,  and 
Breton,  depending,  more  than  most  human  beings,  upon  the 
protection  of  his  fellows,  gathered  courage. 

"  My  father  had  always  taught  me  to  hate  my  grand- 
mother. He  painted  her  to  me  as  I  have  since  found  her  — ■ 
remorseless,  eaten  up  with  pride,  cruel.  I  came  home  to 
England,  meaning  to  lead  a  new  life,  to  he  decent  —  as  I'd 
always  wanted  to  be. 

"  "Well,  they  wouldn't  have  me,  not  one  of  them.  They 
pretended  to  at  first ;  and  my  Uncle  John  at  least  was  sincere, 
I  think,  and  was  kind  for  a  time,  but  was  afraid  of  my  grand- 
mother as  they  all  were.  Christopher  —  you  know  him  of 
course  —  was  a  real  friend  to  me.  He'd  stood  up  for  my 
father  before  and  he  stood  up  for  me  now.  But  what  was  the 
use  ?  I  was  wild  when  I  saw  that  my  grandmother  was 
against  me  and  was  going  to  do  her  best  to  ruin  me.  I  just 
didn't  care  then  —  what  was  the  good  of  it  all  ?  Other  peo- 
ple encouraged  me.  The  set  in  London  that  hated  my  people 
would  have  done  something  with  me,  but  I  wouldn't  be  held 
by  anyone. 

"  I'm  not  excusing  myself,"  he  said  quietly,  looking  away 
ifrom  the  window  and  suddenly  taking  his  judgment  from 
her  eyes. 

"  I  know  you're  not,"  she  said,  smiling  back  to  him. 

"  Cards  finished  me.  I'd  always  loved  gambling  —  I  love 
it  still  —  my  father  had  given  me  a  good  education  in  it. 
There  were  plenty  of  fellows  in  town,  to  take  one  on  and  — 
Oh!  it's  all  such  an  old  story  now,  not  worth  digging  up. 
OBut  there  was  a  house  and  a  table  and  a  young  fool  who  lost 
all  he  possessed  and  —  well,  did  for  himseli     It.  had  all  been 


LIZZIE  Am)  BRETOIT  lai 

square  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  but  somebody  had  to  be  a 
scapegoat  and  two  or  three  of  us  were  named.  It  was  hushed 
up  for  the  sake  of  the  young  fellow's  people,  but  everyone 
knew.  Of  course  they  all  said,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
*  Like  father  like  son,'  and  I  think  I  minded  that  more  than 
anything " 

"  Oh !     I'm  sorry,  I'm  sorry,"  Lizzie  said. 

*'  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  that  it  had  all  been  straight 
as  far  as  I  was  concerned  —  gambling  just  as  anyone  might. 
That's  what  made  me  so  mad,  to  think  of  the  rest  of  them  — 
all  so  virtuous  and  good  —  and  then  going  off  to  Monte  Carlo 
and  losing  or  winning  their  little  bit  —  just  as  I'd  done. 

"  I  tried  to  brazen  it  out  for  a  bit,  but  it  was  no  good. 
Christopher  still  stuck  by  me  —  otherwise  it  was  —  well,  the 
Under  Ten,  you  know " 

"The  Under  Ten?" 

"  Yes  —  all  the  men  and  women  who've  done  something  — 
once  —  done  one  of  the  things  that  you  mustn't  do.  It 
mayn't  have  been  very  bad,  not  half  so  bad  as  the  things  — 
the  cruel,  mean  things  —  that  most  people  do  every  day  of 
their  lives,  but,  once  it's  there,  you're  down,  you're  under. 
There's  a  regular  colony  of  them  here  in  London ;  their  life's 
amusing.  There  they  are,  hanging  on  here,  keeping  up  some 
pretence  of  gaiety,  some  kind  of  decency,  waiting,  hoping 
that  the  day  will  come  when  they'll  be  taken  back  again,  when 
everything  will  be  forgotten.  They  pretend,  bravely  enough, 
not  to  mind  their  snubs,  not  to  notice  the  kind  people,  once 
their  friends,  who  cut  them  now.  Every  now  and  again  they 
make  a  spring  like  fish  to  the  top  of  the  water,  see  the  sun, 
hope  that  the  light  and  air  are  to  be  theirs  again,  after  all  — 
and  then  back  they  are  pushed,  down  into  the  dark,  their  ele- 
ment  now,  they  are  told.  Oh!  there's  comedy  there,  Miss 
Eand,  if  you  care  to  look  for  it." 

She  said  nothing;  the  fierce  bitterness  in  his  voice  had 
made  him  seem  older  suddenly,  as  though,  in  this  portion  of 
his  journey,  he  had  spent  many,  many  years. 


132  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

"  I  must  cut  it  short  —  you'll  have  had  enough  of  this.  I 
couldn't  stand  it.  I  left  London  and  went  abroad.  After 
that,  what  didn't  I  do  ?  I  was  everywhere,  I  did  everything. 
Sometimes  I  was  straight,  sometimes  I  wasn't.  I  was  always 
bitter,  wild  with  fury  when  I  thought  of  that  old  woman  — 
of  her  complacency,  sitting  there  and  striking  down  all  the 
poor  devils  that  had  been  less  fortunate  than  she.  All  those 
years  abroad  I  nourished  that  anger  and,  at  last,  when  I 
thought  that  I'd  been  abroad  long  enough,  that  people  would 
have  forgotten,  perhaps,  and  forgiven,  I  came  back.  I  came 
back  to  be  revenged  on  my  grandmother  and  to  re-establish 
myself.  I'd  got  some  money,  enough  for  a  little  annuity, 
and  I  was  careful  now  —  I  wasn't  going  to  make  any  mis- 
takes this  time."  He  laughed  bitterly.  "  One  doesn't  learm 
much  with  age.  What  a  fool  I  was!  I've  got  the  reputa- 
tion I  had  before,  whether  I'm  good  or  bad.  It  would  all  be 
hopeless  —  utterly  hopeless  —  if  it  weren't  for  one 
thing " 

She  looked  up,  and  as  she  glanced  at  him,  could  feel  the 
furious  beating  of  her  heart. 

"  I'd  go  back  at  once  —  I've  almost  gone  back  already  — 
not  abroad,  that  never  again  for  long  —  but  back  to  my 
friends,  the  unfortunates  — ^"  He  laughed.  "  They're 
anxious  to  have  me.  They'll  welcome  me.  I  can  have  my 
cards  and  the  rest  then,  with  no  one  to  object  or  to  lecture  — 
and  I'll  be  done  for  quite  nicely,  completely  done  for." 

Then  he  pulled  himself  together,  squared  his  shoulders. 
"  But  one  thing  keeps  me,"  he  said.  "  Something's  hap- 
pened in  the  last  few  weeks  —  I've  met  somebody " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  Somebody  who's  made  it  worth  while  for  me  to  fight  on 
a  bit."  She  could  feel  his  agitation:  his  voice,  although  he 
tried  very  hard  to  control  it,  was  shaking.  Then  he  laughed, 
raised  his  voice  and  caught  and  held  her  eyes  with  his. 

"  But  there,  Miss  Rand.  I've  talked  a  fearful  lot,  only  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  —  I  had  to  tell  you.     And  now  —  if  you 


LIZZIE  AND  BRETON  138 

feel  —  that  you'd  rather  not  know  me,  youVe  only  got  to 
say  so." 

She  laughed  a  little  unsteadily. 

"  Thank  you  for  taking  me  into  your  confidence.  You 
shall  never  regret  it.  I'm  glad  you're  going  to  hold  on,  and, 
after  all,  we're  all  doing  that  more  or  less." 

"  It's  done  me  a  world  of  good  talking  like  this.  It's  what 
I've  been  wanting  for  months." 

She  quieted  her  emotion.  Looking  out  into  the  stars  she 
knew  that  she  believed  every  word  that  he  had  said.  She 
thought  that  she  valued  Truth  above  every  other  quality; 
the  directness  that  there  was  in  Truth;  its  honesty  and 
clarity.  He  might  not  always  be  honest  with  her,  but  she 
would  never  forget  that  he  had,  on  this  night,  at  least,  spoken 
no  falsehood. 

Life  —  her  work,  her  surroundings,  Portland  Place,  her 
home  —  this  was  full  of  falsehood  and  deceit  and  muddle. 

Here,  this  evening,  at  last,  was  honesty. 

They  said  no  more,  but  sat  there  silently  and  listened  to 
the  echo  of  dance  music  from  some  house. 

Mrs.  Rand,  whom  their  conversation  had  lured  into  oblivion 
of  them,  was  roused  now  by  their  silence. 

She  looked  up.  "  It's  quite  splendid,"  she  said,  "  you  must 
read  it,  Lizzie.  The  part  about  the  Riviera  is  lovely." 
Then,  slowly  remembering,  "  Really,  Mr.  Breton,  I'm  afraid 
you  must  consider  me  very  rude." 

He  came  towards  her,  assuring  her  that  his  evening  had 
been  delightful. 

Lizzie  was  happy,  happier  than  she  could  ever  remember 
to  have  been  before.  She  felt  her  cheeks  burn.  She  leant 
out  of  the  window  to  cool  them.  She  flung  back,  over  her 
shoulder : 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Breton  —  a  piece  of  gossip.  Your 
cousin  is  to  marry  Sir  Roderick  Seddon !  " 

She  could  not  see  him.  He  said  nothing.  Mrs.  Rand 
said: 


134  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

"  Really,  Lizzie !  How  interesting  I  How  long's  that  been 
announced  ? " 

"  Oh !  it  isn't  announced.  I  don't  believe  that  he's  even 
asked  her,  but  all  the  house  knows  it.  It's  settled.  I  be- 
lieve she  likes  him  immensely  and,  of  course,  the  Duchess  is 
devoted  to  him." 

Anything  would  do  to  talk  about.  What  did  it  matter? 
Only  that  she  should  keep  on  talking  so  that  they  should  not 
see  how  happy  she  was  —  how  happy ! 

He  said  good  night,  rather  sharply;  his  voice  was  con- 
strained as  though  he  too  were  keeping  in  his  emotion. 

After  he  had  gone  Mrs.  Eand  said,  "  I  don't  like  him,  my 
dear.  I  can't  help  it  —  you  may  laugh  at  me  —  but  my  im* 
pressions  are  always  right.  He  hardly  spoke  to  me  all  the 
evening." 

"  Why,  mother,  you  were  reading.     How  could  he  ?  " 

"  That's  all  very  well,  but  I  don't  like  him.  And  I  believe 
he's  in  love  with  his  cousin.  He  went  quite  white  when  you 
spoke  about  the  engagement." 

"  Mother  —  bow  absurd  you  are.  He's  only  seen  her 
once " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  that's  a  book  you  ought  to  read ;  really, 
I  haven't  enjoyed  anything  so  much  for  weeks.  I 
simply '' 

Up  in  her  bedroom  Lizzie  flung  wide  her  window  and 
laughed  at  the  golden  moon.  Then  she  lay,  for  hours,  staring 
at  the  pale  light  that  it  flung  upon  her  ceiling. 

Oh!  what  a  fool  she  was!  But  she  was  happy,  happy, 
happy.  And  he  needed  someone  to  look  after  him  —  h© 
did,  indeed  I 


CHAPTER  XI 

HER  GRACE'S  DAY 


THE  Duchess  had  fcuiffered,  during  the  last  five  or  six 
years,  from  sleeplessness,  and  throughout  these  hot  days 
and  nights  of  June  and  July  sleep  almost  deserted  her. 
Grimly  she  gave  it  no  quarter,  allowing  to  no  one  that  she 
was  sleeping  badly,  pretending  even  to  Christopher  that  all 
was  well. 

Nevertheless  those  long  dark  hours  began  to  tell  upon  her. 
She  had  known  many  nights  sleepless  through  pain,  certain 
nights  sleepless  through  anxiety,  but  they,  terrible  though 
they  had  been,  had  not  worn  so  stem  a  look  as  these  long 
black  spaces  of  time  when  all  rest  and  comfort  seemed  to  be 
drawn  from  her  by  some  mysterious  hand. 

To  herself  now  she  admitted  that  she  dreaded  that  moment 
■when  Dorchester  left  her ;  she  began  to  do  what  she  had  never 
in  her  life  done  before,  to  fall  asleep  during  the  daytime. 
Small  mercy  to  anyone  who  might  attract  any  attention  to 
those  little  naps. 

She  fell  asleep  often  towards  six  or  seven  and,  therefore, 
without  any  comment,  Dorchester,  seeing  her  fatigue,  left 
her  to  sleep  until  late  in  the  morning.  She  had  not  for  many 
years  left  her  room  before  midday,  but  she  had  been  awake 
with  her  correspondence  and  the  papers  by  half-past  seven 
at  the  latest.     Now  it  was  often  eleven  before  she  woke. 

She  found  that  she  did  not  wake  with  the  energy  and 
freshness  that  she  had  always  known  before.  About  her 
there  always  hovered  a  great  cloud  of  fatigue  —  something 
not  quite  present,  but  threatening  at  any  moment  to  descend. 

On  a  certain  morning  late  in  July  she  awoke  after  two  or 
three  hours'  restless  sleep.     As  she  woke  she  was  conscious 

135 


136  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

that  those  hours  had  not  removed  from  her  that  threatening 
cloud :  she  heard  a  clock  strike  eleven.  Dorchester  was  draw- 
ing back  the  curtains  and  from  behind  the  blinds  there  leapt 
upon  her  a  blazing,  torrid  day. 

Her  bedroom  carried  on  the  touch  of  fantasy  that  her  other 
room  had  shown;  she  was  lying  in  a  red  lacquer  Japanese 
bed  that  mounted  up  behind  her  like  a  throne.  Her  wall- 
paper was  an  embossed  dull  gold  and  the  chairs  were  carved 
Indian,  of  black  ebony. 

Lying  in  bed  she  appeared  very  old  and  ugly;  the  sharp 
nose  was  exceedingly  prominent  and  her  white  hair  scattered 
about  the  pillow  gave  her  face  the  colour  of  dried  parchment. 

Dorchester  brought  her  her  chocolate  and  her  letters  and 
The  Times  and  the  Morning  Post. 

"  Another  terribly  hot  day,  your  Grace." 

"  Yes  —  I  suppose  so."  As  she  took  her  letters  she  felt, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  that  it  would  perhaps  be  better 
to  lie  in  bed  for  the  rest  of  her  life  and  conduct  the  world 
from  there. 

She  put  the  letters  down  and  stared  at  the  day  — 

"  Draw  the  curtains  again,  Dorchester,  and  kindly  ask  Lady 
Adela  if  she  will  be  so  good  as  to  come  and  see  me  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  time." 

When  Dorchester  had  gone  she  lay  back  and  closed  her  eyes 
and  dozed  again,  whilst  the  chocolate  grew  cold  and  the  births 
and  deaths  and  marriages  grew  aged  and  stale.  She  did  not 
care,  she  did  not  want  to  see  her  daughter  .  .  .  she  did  not 
want  to  see  anyone,  nor  was  there  anything  now  in  the  world 
worth  her  energy  or  trouble.  Her  body,  being  now  at  ease, 
was  called  back  to  days,  brighter  days,  days  filled  with 
thrilling  events  and  thrilling  people,  days  when  the  world 
was  a  world  and  not  a  dried-up  cinder.  Those  were 
men  .  .  .  those  were  women  .  .  .  and  then,  suddenly,  she 
was  conscious  first  that  her  daughter  was  speaking  and  then 
that  her  daughter  was  a  tiresome  f  ooL 


HER  GRACE'S  DAY  187 

She  sat  up  a  little  and  her  nightdress  fell  back  showing  a 
neck  bony,  crinkled  and  yellow. 

"  I  said  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  she  snapped. 

"  It  is  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  mother,"  said  Lady  Adela. 

Lady  Adela  hated  and  dreaded  these  morning  interviews. 
In  the  first  place  she  disliked  the  decorations  of  her  mother's 
bedroom,  thought  them  almost  indecent,  and  could  never  bo 
comfortable  in  such  surroundings.  She  was  also  aware,  by 
long  experience,  that  her  mother  was  always  at  her  worst  at 
this  hour  in  the  morning  and  many  were  the  storms  of  temper 
that  that  absurd  bed  and  those  unpleasant  black  chairs  had 
witnessed.  Thirdly  she  knew  that  she  herself  looked  her 
worst  and  was  her  weakest  amongst  these  eccentricities  and 
shadowed  by  this  dim  light. 

She  waited  now  whilst  her  mother  fumbled  her  letters. 

"  There's  your  chocolate,  mother,"  she  said  at  last.  "  It'll 
be  cold." 

The  Duchess  was  looking  at  her  letters,  but  was  absorbing 
only  a  little  of  their  contents.  She  was  summoning  all  her 
will  to  her  aid;  she  wanted  to  order  the  blind  to  be  pulled 
down,  to  command  her  daughter  to  avoid  her  presence  for  at 
least  a  week,  to  scatter  her  correspondence  to  the  four  comers 
of  the  earth,  and  to  see  none  of  it  again ;  at  the  same  time  she 
was  driving  into  her  brain  the  fact  that  before  Adela,  of  all 
people  in  the  world,  she  must  be  alert  and  wise  and  wonderful ; 
Adela,  the  ugliest  and  most  foolish  of  living  women,  must 
see  no  weakness. 

"  Shall  I  read  your  letters  to  you,  mother  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer;  slowly,  steadily  at  last,  her  will  was 
flooding  her  brain.  She  could  feel  the  warmth  and  the  colour 
and  the  strength  of  it  pervading  again  her  body.  The  day 
did  not  now  appear  of  so  appalling  a  heat  and  the  weight  of 
the  things  to  be  done  was  less  heavy  upon  her. 

Lady  Adela,  meanwhile,  watching  her  mother  was  struck 
once  again  by  that  chill  dismay  that  had  alarmed  her  first  on 


138  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

that  May  evening,  after  the  visit  to  the  picture  gallery.  In 
that  half-light  her  mother  did  seem  very,  very  old  and  very, 
very  feeble.  Lady  Adela  had  a  dreadful  temptation  to  say  in 
a  brusque  sharp  voice,  "  What  do  you  let  your  chocolate  get 
cold  like  that  for  ?  Why  don't  you  get  someone  to  read  your 
letters  sensibly  to  you  instead  of  groping  through  them  like 
that  ? "  and  at  the  mere  horror  of  such  a  thought  a  shudder 
shook  her  and  her  heart  began  wildly  to  beat.  Let  once  such 
■words  as  those  cross  her  lips  and  an  edifice,  a  wonderful, 
towering  temple  raised  by  submissions  and  subduals  and 
self-denials,  would  tumble  to  the  ground. 

For  some  moments  the  struggle  in  Lady  Adela's  breast  was 
sharp,  then  by  a  tense  dominion  of  her  will  she  produced  once 
again  for  herself  the  Ceremonial,  the  Terror,  the  agitated, 
humble  Submission. 

"  Julia  Massiter,"  the  Duchess  said,  "  has  asked  Eachel 
for  the  last  week-end  in  July  —  She'll  go  of  course '* 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Adela. 

"  Roddy  Seddon  is  going " 

"  Yes." 

"  Roddy  is  going  to  marry  Rachel.  He's  coming  to  see  me 
this  afternoon." 

Lady  Adela  was  silent. 

"  A  very  suitable  business.  I'd  intended  it  for  a  long 
time."     Then,  after  a  pause  — 

"  You  may  tell  Dorchester  I  will  dress  now." 

Lady  Adela,  conscious,  as  she  left  the  room,  of  the  relief  of 
her  dismissal,  joyfully  yielded  that  relief  as  witness  — 

The  Terror  was  still  there,  and  she  was  glad. 

n 

Very  different,  however,  at  three  in  the  afternoon.  Kow 
she  sat  in  her  high  black  chair  waiting  for  Roddy  Seddon. 
Very  diflScult  now  to  imagine  that  early  discouragement  of 
the  morning.  Magnificent  now  with  her  black  dress  and 
flashing  eyes  and  white  hair,  waiting  for  Roddy  Seddon. 


HER  GRACE'S  DAY  139 

This  that  she  had  long  planned  was  at  length  to  come  to 
pass.  Roddy  Seddon  was  to  be  united  to  the  Beaminster 
family,  never  again  to  be  separated  from  it. 

Of  Rachel  she  thought  not  at  all.  She  had  never  liked 
Rachel;  indeed  it  was  a  more  positive  feeling  than  that. 
Alone  of  all  the  family  was  Rachel  still  in  rebellion ;  even  the 
Duke,  although  he  was  so  often  abroad  or  in  the  country 
(he  hated  London),  was  submissive  enough  when  he  was  withl 
them.  But  Rachel  the  old  woman  knew  that  she  had  not 
touched. 

Frightened  —  yes.  The  girl  hated  that  evening  half-hour 
and  would  give  a  great  deal  to  avoid  it,  but  the  terror  that  she 
showed  did  not  bring  her  any  closer  to  her  grandmother's 
power ;  she  stood  outside  and  away. 

The  Duchess  had  attempted  to  influence  the  girl's  brain,  to 
catch  some  trait,  some  preference,  some  dislike,  that  she  could 
hold  and  use. 

Still  Rachel's  soul  was  beyond  her  grasp,  beyond  even  her 
guessing  at.  But  she  knew  Roddy  Seddon  —  she  knew 
Roddy  Seddon  as  no  one  knew  him.  And  Roddy  Seddon 
knew  her. 

Even  when  he  was  a  boy  he  had  known  her  as  no  one  else 
knew  her.  He  had  seen  through  all  her  embroideries  and  dis- 
guises, had  known  where  she  was  theatrical  and  why  she  was 
60,  had  discovered  her  plots  and  prides,  her  defeats  and 
victories  —  and  together  they  two.  Pagan  to  the  very  bone  of 
them,  had  laughed  at  a  credulous,  superstitious  world. 

The  London  that  knew  Roddy  Seddon  thought  him  a; 
country  bumpkin  with  dissipated  tastes  and  an  amiable  heart. 
But  she  knew  him  better  than  that.  He  was  not  clever — ' 
no.  He  was  amazingly  innocent  of  books,  he  had  no  intellec- 
tual attainments  whatever  —  yet  had  he  received  any  kind  of 
education,  she  knew  that  he  might  have  had  one  of  the  finest 
brains  in  the  country. 

He  had  preferred  dogs  and  horses  and  the  simple  enjoj* 
ments  of  his  sensations. 


140  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Bowing  to  the  outward  rules  and  laws  of  the  modem  world 
he  was  less  modem  than  anyone  she  had  ever  known. 

Pagan  —  root  and  branch  Pagan.  In  his  simplicities,  in 
his  complexities,  in  his  moralities  and  immoralities,  in  hia 
kindnesses  and  cruelties  —  Pagan. 

When  they  were  together  it  was  astonishing  the  number  of 
trappings  that  they  were  able  to  discard.  They  were  Pagan 
together. 

But  Kachel  ?    Eachel  ? 

Well,  Rachel  did  not  matter.  It  would  be  a  rather  good 
sight  to  see  Rachel  suffer,  to  watch  her  proud  spirit  up  against 
something  that  she  could  not  understand. 

And  meanwhile  the  Beaminster  family  was  strengthened 
by  a  great  addition  and  the  campaign  against  this  new  gen- 
eration, that  refused  to  be  led,  that  wished  to  lead,  that 
thought  itself  so  very,  very  brilliant,  should  go  victoriously 
forward.  .  .  , 

"  Sir  Roderick  Seddon,  your  Grace." 

As  she  looked  at  the  healthy  and  red-faced  Roddy  sitting 
opposite  to  her,  for  an  instant,  some  sharp  warning,  some  fore- 
ordained consciousness  of  trouble  to  come,  bade  her  pause. 
She  knew  that  a  word  from  her,  now,  would  be  enough  to 
prevent  the  match.  He  would  not  prosecute  it  were  she 
against  it.  After  all,  ought  Roddy  to  marry  anybody? 
Could  a  girl,  as  ignorant  of  the  world  as  Rachel,  put  up  any 
^ght  against  Roddy's  simple  complexities  ? 

What,  after  all,  did  Roddy  think  of  the  girl?  Did  he 
imagine  that  he  was  in  love  with  her?  Did  he  know  her, 
nnderstand  her? 

Then,  looking  at  him,  the  affection  that  she  had  for  him  — 
the  only  affection  that  she  had  for  anyone  in  the  world  — 
swept  over  her.  This  marriage  would  bind  him  to  her, 
would  give  her  another  ally  before  the  world  —  yes,  it  should 
go  on. 

She  smiled  at  him. 

*'  Well,  Roddy,  have  you  no  news  for  me,  now  ?  " 


HER  GRACE'S  DAY  14t 

He  had  been  silent,  gazing  before  him,  his  brows  puckered. 

!N"ow  he  smiled  back  at  her. 

"  Well,  there's  been  the  usual  doin's  the  last  week  or  two. 
I've  been  dancin'  every  night  till  I'm  tired.  'Bout  time  for 
the  country  agen " 

"  Have  you  been  down  to  Seddon  at  all  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Two  nights  last  week  —  all  dried  up  —  Place 
wants  me  a  bit  oftener  down  there " 

"  What's  this  I  hear  about  young  Olive  Ormond  marrying 
'Besset  Crewe's  daughter  ?  " 

"  So  they  say  —  can't  imagine  it  myself.  The  girl's  about 
eighty-four  and  a  half  and  he's  the  most  awful  kid.  Saw 
them  at  the  opera  the  other  night " 

"  What  about  Scotland  this  summer,  Roddy  ?  Are  you 
going 


2" 


"  Don't  think  so.     Depends " 

Then  there  was  silence.  The  little  conversation  had  been 
as  stiff  as  it  was  possible  a  conversation  could  be.  The  China 
dragons  must  have  wondered  —  never  before  so  constrained  a 
dialogue  between  these  two ! 

l!^ow  another  pause,  then  suddenly  Roddy,  his  hands 
clutching  one  another,  his  face  redder  than  ever  — 

"  I  want  —  I  wonder  —  dash  it  —  have  I  your  leave  to  ask 
your  granddaughter  to  marry  me  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  Really,  my  dear  Roddy,  you've  been  very  long  about  it  — 
coming  out  with  it,  I  mean.  Didn't  you  know  and  didn't  I 
know  that  that's  what  you  came  for  to-day  ?  " 

"  Well  then,  may  I  ?  " 

She  paused  and  watched  his  anxiety.  Between  both  of 
them  there  hung,  now,  the  recollection  of  so  many  things  — 
conversations  and  deeds  and  thoughts  known  to  both  of  them, 
so  many,  many  things  that  no  others  in  all  the  world  could 
know.     She  waited  for  his  eyes,  caught  them  and  held  them. 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

**  Yes  —  that  is  —  she's  splendid " 


U2  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

"You  haven't  known  her  very  long  and  you're  a  little 
impulsive,  ain't  you,  Roddy,  about  these  things  ?  " 

"  ^o  —  I  don't  know  her  now.  But  we've  seen  a  lot  of 
one  another  these  last  months  —  a  fearful  lot.  She's  —  oh  I 
hang  it  I     I  never  can  say  things  —  but  she's  a  brick." 

"  Do  you  think  she'll  accept  you  ?  " 

"  How  can  any  feller  tell  ?  I  think  she  likes  me  —  she's 
odd " 

"  Yes  —  she  is  —  very.  She's  a  mixture  —  she's  very 
young  —  and  she  won't  understand  you." 

His  eyes  were  suddenly  troubled  and,  as  she  saw  that 
trouble,  she  was  alarmed.     He  really  did  care.  .  ,  . 

"  Yes,  I  know  —  I  don't  understand  myself.  I'm  wild 
sometimes  —  I  wish  I  weren't " 

"  Marriage  is  going  to  make  you  a  model  character,  Roddy. 
Of  course  I'm  glad  —  but  it  won't  be  easy,  you  know.  And 
she  won't  be  easy." 

"  I  want  her  though.  I've  never  thought  of  marriage  be- 
fore.    I  do  want  her." 

"  My  dear  Roddy,  you  speak  as  though  she  were  a  sheep  or 
a  dog. '  It's  only  her  first  season.  Don't  you  think  you'd 
better  wait  a  little  ?  " 

"  No.     I  want  her  now." 

"  Well,  you're  definite  enough  — "  She  paused  and  then, 
in  a  voice  that  had,  in  spite  of  her,  real  emotion,  "  You  have 
my  consent.     You've  got  my  blessing." 

He  rose  and  came  clumsily  towards  her. 

"  You  don't  know  —  I'm  no  use  at  words,  but  I'm  dam* 
grateful  —  Rippin'  of  you  I  " 

For  a  second  he  touched  her  dried,  withered  hand  —  how 
cold  it  was  I  and  in  this  hot  weather,  too. 

"  You'll  ask  her  at  Julia  Massiter's  next  week  2  " 

"  Expect  so  —  I  say  you  are " 

Then  he  sat  down  again.  The  room  was  relieved  of  an 
immense  burden ;  once  more  they  were  at  ease  together. 


HER  GRACE'S  DAY  143 

"  The  otLer  night  — "  he  said,  bending  forward  and  chuck- 
ling ever  so  2ittle. 

m 

Lady  Carloes,  Agnes  Lady  Eamet,  and  old  Mrs.  Brunning 
were  coming  to  play  bridge  with  her.  The  ceremonial  was 
ever  the  same!  They  arrived  at  half -past  nine  and  at  half- 
past  eleven  supper  for  four  was  served  in  the  Duchess's  little 
green  room,  behind  her  bedroom  (a  little  room  like  a  box  with 
a  green  wall-paper,  a  card-table  and  silver  candlesticks). 
They  played,  sometimes,  until  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  the  Duchess  played  an  exceedingly  good  game  and 
Mrs.  Brunning  (a  bony  little  woman  like  a  plucked  chicken) 
was  the  best  bridge  player  in  London.  The  other  two  were 
moderate,  but  made  mistakes  which  allowed  the  Duchess  the 
free  use  of  her  most  caustic  wit  and  satire. 

Lord  John  came  just  before  dinner  as  he  always  did 'for  a 
few  minutes  every  evening.  He  stood  there,  fat  and  smiling 
and  amiable  and,  as  always,  a  little  nervous. 

"Well,  John?" 

She  liked  John  the  best  of  her  children,  although  he  was, 
of  course,  the  most  fearful  fool,  but  she  liked  his  big  broad 
face  and  he  was  always  clean  and  healthy;  moreover,  she 
could  use  him  more  easily  than  any  of  them. 

"  Bridge  to-night,  mother,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Not  so  hot  this  evening.  Just  give  me  that  book. 
Turn  the  lamp  up  a  little  —  no  —  not  that  one.  The  de 
Goncourt  book.     Yes.     Thank  you." 

"  Anything  I  can  get  for  you,  mother  ?  Anyone  I  can  send 
to  you  ? " 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  smiled  down  at  her,  "  She's  old  to- 
night —  old  and  tired.     This  hot  weather.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  up  at  him  before  she  settled  herself  — 

"  Roddy  Seddon  came  this  afternoon " 

"Yes.     I  know." 


144  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

Suddenly  his  heart  began  to  beat.  He  had  known,  during 
all  these  last  weeks,  of  what  the  common  talk  had  been.  He 
knew,  too,  what  his  conscience  had  told  him,  and  he  knew,  too, 
how  perpetually  he  had  silenced  that  same  conscience. 

"  He  asked  me  whether  he  had  my  permission  to  propose 
to  Eachel " 

"  Yes." 

"  Of  course  I  gave  it  him.  I  thought  it  most  suitable  in 
every  way." 

Now  was  Lord  John's  moment.  He  knew,  even  as  it  de- 
scended upon  him,  what  was  the  right  thing  to  do.  He  must 
protest  —  Roddy  Seddon  was  not  the  right  man  to  marry 
Rachel,  Rachel  who  was  to  him  more  than  anyone  in  the 
world  — 

He  must  protest  — 

And  then  with  that  impulse  went  the  old  warning  that 
because  his  mother  seemed  to  him  older  and  feebler  to-night 
than  he  had  ever  known  her,  therefore  if  he  spoke  now,  it 
would  involve  far  more  than  the  immediate  dispute.  There 
was  a  sudden  impulse  in  him  to  risk  discomfort,  to  risk  a 
ficene,  to  break,  perhaps,  in  the  new  assertion  of  his  authority, 
all  the  old  domination,  to  smash  a  tradition  to  pieces. 

He  glanced  at  his  mother.  She  met  his  eyes.  He  knew 
that  she  was  daring  him  to  speak.  After  all  to-morrow  would 
be  a  better  time  —  she  was  tired  now  —  he  would  speak  then. 
His  eyes  fell,  and  after  a  pause  and  a  word  about  some  in- 
different  matter,  he  said  good  night  and  went. 

IV 

Once,  in  some  early  hour  of  the  morning  when  the  candles 
were  burning  low,  the  thought  of  Rachel  came  to  her. 

Even  as  she  noticed  that  her  hand  shone  magnificently 
with  hearts  she  was  conscious  that  the  girl  stood  opposite  to 
her,  there  against  the  green  wall,  straight  and  fierce,  all  black 
and  white,  looking  at  her. 

Christopher?     John?  ,  .  , 


HER  GRACE'S  DAY  146 

For  a  second  her  brain  was  clouded.  Might  she  not  have 
attempted  some  relationship  with  the  girl  ?  Given  her  some 
counsel  and  a  little  kindness?  She  must  have  been  lonely 
there  in  that  great  house  without  a  friend.  She  was  going 
now  into  a  very  perilous  business. 

She  pushed  the  weakness  from  her.  Her  eyes  were  again 
upon  the  cards. 

"  Hearts,"  she  said.  The  odd  trick  this  game  and  it  was 
her  rubber.  The  dying  flame  rose  in  the  silver  sconces  and 
the  four  old  heads  bobbed,  wildly,  fantastically,  upon  tha 
walL 


CHAPTER  XII 

DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGER  —  I 


RACHEL  sat  in  the  train  with  Aunt  Adela  and  Uncle 
John:  they  were  on  their  waj  to  Trunton  St. 
Perth,  Lord  Massiter's  country  house.  It  was  a  July  day 
softened  with  cool  airs  and  watered  colours ;  trees  and  fields 
were  mingled  with  sky  and  cloud ;  through  the  counties  there 
was  the  echo  of  running  streams,  only  against  an  earth  fading 
into  sky  and  a  sky  bending  and  embracing  earth,  sharp,  with 
hard  edges,  the  walls  and  towers  that  man  had  piled  together 
Bhowed  their  outlines  cut  as  with  a  sword. 

Over  all  the  country  in  the  pale  blue  of  the  afternoon  sky  a 
great  moon  was  burning  and  the  com  ran  in  fine  abundance 
to  the  summit  of  the  hills. 

Rachel,  as  the  train  plunged  with  her  into  the  heart  of 
Sussex,  was  gazing  happily  through  the  window,  dreaming, 
almost  dozing,  feeling  in  every  part  of  her  a  warm  and  grate- 
ful content.  Opposite  to  her  Aunt  Adela,  gaunt  and  with  the 
expression  that  she  always  wore  in  trains  as  of  one  whose 
person  and  property  were  in  danger,  at  any  instant,  of  total 
destruction,  read  a  life  of  a  recently  deceased  general  whose 
widow  she  knew.  Uncle  John,  with  three  illustrated  papers, 
was  interested  in  photographs  of  people  with  one  leg  in  the 
air  and  their  mouths  wide  open;  every  now  and  again  he 
would  say  (to  nobody  in  particular),  "  There's  old  Reggie 
Cutler  with  that  foreign  woman  —  you  know  " —  or  "  Fancy 
Shorty  Monmouth  being  at  Cowes  after  all  this  year  —  you 
know  we  heard " 

Rachel  had  been  having  a  wonderful  time  —  that  was  the 
great  fact  that  ran,  up  and  down,  through  her  dozing  thoughts. 
Yes,  a  wonderful  time.     It  was  surely,  now,  a  century  ago, 

146 


DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGER  — I  Ut 

that  fitrange  period  when  she  had  dreaded,  so  terribly,  Ker 
plunge. 

That  day,  after  her  visit  to  the  Bond  Street  gallery,  when  it 
had  all  seemed  simply  more  than  she  could  possibly  encounter, 
those  talks  with  May  Eversley  (who,  by  the  way,  had  just 
announced  herself  as  engaged  to  a  middle-aged  baronet)  when 
the  world  had  frowned  down  from  a  vast,  incredible  height 
upon  a  miserably  terrified  midget.  Why !  the  absurdity  of  it ! 
It  had  all  been  as  easy,  simply  as  easy  as  though  she  had 
been  plunged  in  the  very  heart  of  it  all  her  life. 

Followed  there  swiftly  upon  that  the  knowledge  that  Roddy 
Seddon  was  to  be,  for  this  same  week-end,  at  Lady  Massiter's, 
Rachel  did  not  pretend  that,  ever  since  that  Meistersinger 
night  at  the  opera  she  had  not  known  of  his  attentions  to  her 
—  impossible  to  avoid  them  had  she  wished,  impossible  to 
pretend  ignorance  of  the  meaning  that  his  inarticulate  sen- 
tences had,  of  late,  conveyed,  impossible  to  mistake  the  laugh- 
ing hints  and  suggestions  of  May  and  the  others. 

She  did  not  know  what  answer  she  would  give  did  he  ask 
her  to  marry  him.  At  that  concrete  suggestion  her  doze  left 
her  and,  sitting  up,  staring  out  at  the  wonderful  day  into 
whose  heart  muffled  lights  were  now  creeping,  she  asked  her- 
self what,  indeed,  was  her  real  thought  of  him. 

He  was  to  her  as  were  Uncle  John  and  Dr.  Christopher  — > 
safe,  kind,  simple.  He  appealed  to  everything  in  her  that 
longed  for  life  to  be  clear,  comfortable,  without  danger.  She 
loved  his  happiness  in  all  out-of-door  things  —  horses  and 
dogs  and  fields  and  his  little  place  in  Sussex.  Ever  since  that 
visit  to  Uncle  Richard's  fans  she  had  suspected  him  of  other 
appreciations  and  enthusiasms,  perhaps  she  might  in  time 
encourage  those  hidden  things  in  him. 

Above  all  did  she  find  him  true,  straight,  honest  Lies, 
little  mannerisms,  disguises,  these  were  not  in  him,  he  was  as 
clear  to  her  as  a  mirror,  she  would  trust  him  beyond  anyone 
she  knew. 

He  did  not  touch  in  any  part  of  him  that  other  secret,  wild. 


148  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

unreal  life  of  hers,  and  indeed  that  was,  in  him,  the  most 
reassuring  thing  of  all. 

The  Rachel  who  was  in  rehellion,  to  whom  everything  of 
her  l(Ondon  life,  everything  Beaminster,  was  hateful,  whose 
eudden  memories  and  instincts,  whose  swift  alarms  and  fore- 
warnings  were  so  shattering  to  every  clinging  security  that 
life  might  offer  —  this  Eachel  knew  nothing  of  Roddy 
Seddon. 

He  was  there  to  take  her  away  from  that,  to  drive  it  all  into 
darkness,  to  reassure  her  against  its  return,  and  marriage  with 
him  would  mean  release,  security,  best  of  all  freedom  from 
her  grandmother  who  knew,  so  well,  that  life  in  her  and  loved 
to  play  with  that  knowledge.  Her  colour  rose  and  her  eyes 
shone  as  she  thought  of  what  this  so  early  escape  from  the 
Portland  Place  house  would  mean  to  her.  Already,  in  her 
first  season,  to  be  free  of  it  all  —  to  be  free  of  humbug  and 
deception  —  Oh !  for  that  would  she  not  surrender  everything 
in  the  world  ? 

Roddy,  as  she  pictured  him,  with  his  clean  life,  his  love  of 
nature,  his  kindliness,  seemed,  just  then,  the  safest  refuge 
that  would  ever  be  offered  to  her. 

And  at  that,  without  reason,  she  saw  before  her  her  cousin 
Erancis  Breton.  Several  times  she  had  met  him  since  that 
first  occasion  at  Lizzie  Rand's.  Once  again  at  Lizzie's  and 
twice  in  Regent's  Park  when  she  had  been  walking  with 
May. 

Yes  —  that  was  all.  Thinking  of  it  now  the  meetings 
appeared  to  her  almost  infinite.  Between  each  actual  en- 
counter intimacy  seemed  to  leap  in  its  progress,  and  although, 
on  at  least  two  of  them,  he  had  only  walked  with  her  for  the 
shortest  period,  yet,  always  with  them,  she  was  conscious  of 
the  number  of  things  that,  between  them,  did  not  need  to  be 
said  —  knowledge  that  they  shared. 

In  all  this  there  was,  with  her,  a  confusion  of  motives  and 
sensations  that,  at  present,  refused  to  be  disentangled.  Eor 
one  thing  there  was,  in  all  of  this,  a  furtiveness,  a  secrecy,  that 


DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGER  — I  149 

she  loathed.  Against  that  was  the  persuasion  that  it  would  be 
the  finest  thing  in  the  world  for  her  to  bring  him  back  into  the 
Beaminster  fold,  not,  of  course,  that  he  should  remain  there 
(he  was  far  too  strong  and  adventurous  for  that),  but  that, 
accepted  there,  he  could  use  it  as  a  springing-off  board  for 
success  and  fortune.  Let  her  once,  as  the  situation  now  was, 
say  a  word  to  Uncle  John  or  the  others,  and  that  of  course  was 
the  end.  .  .  . 

She  knew,  quite  definitely,  that  now  she  wished  that  she 
had  never  met  hinu 

He  had  been,  during  these  weeks,  the  only  influence  that 
had  drawn  that  other  Rachel  to  the  light.  It  was  always  that 
other  Rachel  that  met  him  —  someone  alarming,  rebellious, 
conscious  of  unhappiness,  and  apprehensive,  above  everything, 
that  in  some  hidden  manner  she  was  being  untrue  to  her  real 
self. 

At  such  moments  it  was  as  though  she  had  blinded  some 
force  within  her,  muffled  it,  stifled  it,  because  her  way  through 
the  world  was  easier  with  it  so  muffled,  so  stifled. 

At  some  future  time,  what  if  there  should  leap  out  upon  her 
that  muffled  figure,  bursting  its  bonds,  refusing  any  longer  to 
be  silenced,  proclaiming  the  world  no  easy,  comfortable 
place,  but  a  battle,  a  fierce,  unresting  war  ? 

When  she  thought  of  Breton  it  was  as  though  she  knew 
herself  for  a  coward,  as  though  he  had  threatened  to  expose 
her  for  one,  and  as  though  (and  this  was  the  worst  of  all) 
something  in  her  was  eager  that  he  should  — 

Against  this  there  was  the  peace,  the  security  that  Roddy 
could  offer  her.  .  .  . 

Beaminster  security,  perhaps  —  nevertheless.  .  .  . 

They  were  at  Trunton  St.  Perth.  The  little  station  glit- 
tered in  the  evening  air.  It  was  all  suddenly  thrilling.  Who 
would  be  there  ?     What  might  not  happen  before  Monday  ? 


150  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 


In  the  Ligli  beautiful  hall  where  they  all  stood  about  and 
had  tea  she  could  see  who  they  were.  There  was  a  girl  whom 
she  had  met  on  several  occasions  this  season,  Nita  Raseley, 
there  was  a  large  florid  cheerful  person  who  was,  she  dis- 
covered, Maurice  Garden,  the  well-known  and  popular 
novelist,  there  was  his  wife,  there  was  a  thin  intellectual 
cousin  of  Lady  Massiter's,  Miss  Eawson,  old  and  plain  enough 
for  her  cleverness  to  have  turned  to  acidity,  Roddy  Seddon 
and,  of  course,  Lord  and  Lady  Massiter. 

Lord  Massiter  was  large  and  florid  like  the  novelist,  and 
when  they  stood  together  by  the  fireplace  foreign  customs 
and  languages  were  suddenly  absurd,  so  English  was  the 
atmosphere.  Lady  Massiter  was  also  large,  but  she  had  the 
kind  and  warm  placidity  that  makes  some  women  the  type 
of  all  maternity.  She  would  be,  Rachel  felt,  a  sure  resource 
in  all  time  of  trouble  and  she  would  also  be  entirely  un- 
satisfactory as  an  intimate  personal  friend.  She  would,  like 
philanthropists  and  clergymen,  love  people  by  the  mass, 
never  by  the  individual. 

!N'ita  Raseley  was  pink  and  white,  with  large  blue  eyes  that 
confided  in  everyone  they  looked  at.  Her  laugh  was  a  little 
shrill,  her  clothes  very  beautiful,  and  men  liked  her. 

So  there  they  all  were. 

She  had  said  good  day  to  Roddy  and  then  had  moved  away 
from  him,  governed  by  some  self-consciousness  and  the  con- 
viction that  Nita  Raseley's  blue  eyes  were  upon  her. 

It  was  all  very  cheerful  and  very  English  as  they  stood 
talking  there,  and  the  doors  beyond  the  hall  showed  through 
their  dark  frames  green  lawns  and  terraces  soaked  in  evening 
light.     It  was  all  very,  very  comfortable. 

As  she  dressed  for  dinner  Rachel  had  her  windows  open,  so 
hot  was  the  night,  and  she  could  watch  the  evening  star  that 
shone  with  a  wonderful  brilliance  above  a  dark  little  wood 
that  crowned  a  rise  beyond  the  gardens.     She  had  a  maid 


DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGER  — I  151 

■who  was  very  young  indeed ;  this  was  her  first  place,  but  she 
had,  during  the  three  months,  learnt  with  great  quickness  and 
had  attached  herself  to  her  mistress  with  the  most  burning 
devotion.  She  was  a  silent,  imusual  girl  and  kept  herself 
apart  from  the  rest  of  the  servants. 

Rachel  as  she  sat  before  her  dressing-table  could  see  in  that 
mirror  the  dark  reflection  of  the  twilit  garden. 

"  It's  a  lovely  place,  Lucy " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Rachel." 

**  Are  you  glad  to  get  away  from  London  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  hot  there  these  last  weeks." 

Rachel  met  in  the  glass  the  girl's  black  eyes.  They  were 
searching  Rachel's  face. 

"  Lucy,  would  you  rather  live  in  London  or  in  the  coun- 
try?" 

"  I  don't  mind,  Miss  Rachel."  Then  after  a  little  pause : 
"  1  hope  I've  given  satisfaction  these  last  weeks  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course." 

"  Then  I  hope,  miss,  that  you'll  allow  me  to  stay  with  yoji 
"whether  —  in  London  or  the  country." 

The  colour  mounted  to  Rachel's  cheeks. 

"  I  hope  there'll  be  no  need  for  any  change,"  she  said. 

She  found  when  she  came  down  to  the  drawing-room  that 
Monty  Carfax  had  arrived.  Monty  Carfax  was  the  chief  of 
the  young  men  who  were,  just  at  that  time,  entertaining 
London  dinner-tables.  About  half  a  dozen  of  Grod's  creatures, 
under  thirty  and  perfectly  dressed,  with  faces  like  tomb- 
stones and  the  laugh  of  the  peacock,  went  from  house  to  house 
in  London  and  mocked  at  the  world. 

They  belonged,  as  the  mediaeval  jesters  belonged,  each  to 
his  own  court,  and  Monty  Carfax,  certainly  the  cleverest  of 
them,  was  attached  to  the  Beaminster  Court  and  served  the 
Duchess  by  faith,  if  not  by  sight. 

Rachel  hated  him  and  always,  when  she  foimd  herself  next 
to  him,  wrapped  herself  in  her  old  farouche  manner  and  be- 
haved like  an  awkward  schoolgirl. 


152  THE  DUCHESS  OP  WKEXE 

She  was  terribly  disappointed  at  discovering  that  he  was 
going  to  take  her  in  to  dinner  to-night ;  he  knew  that  she  dis- 
liked him  and  felt  it  a  compliment  that  a  raw  creature  fresh 
from  the  schoolroom  should  fail  to  appreciate  him;  on  this 
occasion  he  devoted  himself  to  the  elderly  Massiter  cousin  on 
his  other  side  —  throughout  dinner  they  happily  undressed 
the  world  and  found  it  sawdust. 

Rachel  meanwhile  found  Maurice  Garden  her  other  com- 
panion. He  genially  enjoyed  his  dinner  and  talked  in  a  loud 
voice  and  prepared  the  answers  that  he  always  gave  to  ladies 
who  asked  him  when  he  wrote,  whether  he  thought  of  hU 
plots  or  his  characters  first,  and  "  she  did  hope  he  wouldn't 
mind  her  saying  that  of  all  his  books  the  one " 

He  frankly  liked  these  questions  and  was  taken  by  surprise 
when  Rachel  said : 

"  I've  never  read  any  of  your  novels,  Mr.  Garden,  so  I 
won't  pretend " 

He  asked  her  what  she  did  read. 

"  Have  you  ever  read  anything  by  an  author  called  Peter 
Westcott  ? " 

"Westcott?  Westcott?  ...  Let  me  see  ..  .  Westcott? 
.  .  .  Well  now  —  One  of  the  young  men,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes.     He  wrote  a  book  called  Beuhen  Eallard." 

"  Ah  yes.  I  remember  about  Bevhen  Hallard  —  had  quite 
a  little  success  as  a  first  book.  He's  one  of  your  high-brow 
young  men,  all  for  Art  and  the  rest  of  it.  We  all  begin  like 
that,  Miss  Beaminster.     I  was  like  that  myself  once " 

She  looked  at  him  coolly. 

"  Why  did  you  give  it  up  ?  '* 

"  Simply  didn't  pay,  you  know  —  not  a  penny  in  it.  And 
why  should  there  be?  People  don't  want  to  know  what  a 
young  ass  thinks  about  life  if  he  can't  tell  a  story.  All  young 
men  think  the  same  —  green  leaves,  moons  and  stars  and  lots 
of  symbols,  you  know  —  all  good  enough  if  they  don't  expect 
people  to  pay  for  it." 

*'  J  think  Reubfin  Hallard's  a  fine  book,"  she  said,  "  and  so 


DEFIAlvrCE  OF  THE  TIGER  — I  153 

are  some  of  the  others.  After  all,  everyone  doesn't  want  only 
a  plot  in  a  book." 

He  looked  at  her  with  patronizing  kindness.  "  Well,  you 
see  if  jour  Mr.  Westcott  doesn't  change.  Every  writer  wants 
an  audience  whatever  he  may  pretend,  and  the  best  way  to 
get  a  audience  is  to  give  the  audience  what  it  wants.  It 
needs  unusual  courage  to  sit  on  a  packing-case  year  after 
year  and  shave  in  a  broken  looking-glass " 

She  looked  round  the  table.  Everyone  was  happy.  The 
butler  was  fat  and  had  the  face  of  a  Roman  emperor,  the  food 
was  very,  very  good,  l^ita  Raseley  and  Roddy  laughed  and 
laughed  and  laughed  — 

Suddenly  Rachel's  heart  jumped  in  her  body.  Oh!  she 
was  glad;  glad  that  Roddy  cared  for  her  and  would  look 
after  her,  because  otherwise  she  didn't  know  what  violence 
she  might  suddenly  commit,  what  desperations  she  might 
not  engage  upon,  what  rebels  and  outlaws  she  would  not 
support  — 

What  Outlaws!  And  then,  looking  beyond  the  thickly 
curtained  windows,  she  could  fancy  that  she  could  see  one 
gravely  standing  out  there  on  the  lawn,  standing  with  his  one 
arm  and  his  pointed  beard  and  his  eyes  appealing  to  be  let  in. 

Then  there  was  an  ice  that  was  so  good  that  Peter  Westcott 
and  Francis  Breton  seemed  more  outcast  than  ever. 

m 

After  dinner,  when  the  men  had  come  into  the  drawing- 
room,  they  all  went  out  into  the  gardens.  It  was  such  a  night 
of  stars  as  Rachel  had  never  seen,  so  dense  an  army  that  all 
earth  was  conscious  of  them ;  the  sky  was  sheeted  silver,  here 
fading  into  their  clouded  tracery,  there,  at  fairy  points  draw- 
ing the  dark  woods  and  fields  up  to  its  splendour  with  lines 
of  fire.  The  world  throbbed  with  stars,  was  restless  under 
the  glory  of  them  —  God  walked  in  all  gardens  that  night. 

At  first  Nita  Raseley,  Monty  Carfax,  Rachel  and  Roddy 
went  together,  then,  turning  up  a  little  path  into  the  little 


154  THE  DUCHESS  OP  WREXE 

wood  that  rose  above  the  garden,  Eachel  and  Koddy  were 
alone. 

They  found  the  trunk  of  a  tree  and  sat  down  —  Behind 
them  the  trees  were  thin  enough  to  show  the  stars,  below  them 
in  a  dusk  lit  by  that  glimmering  lustre  that  starlight  flings  — 
a  glow  that  would  be  flame  were  it  not  dimmed  by  distance  im- 
measurable—  they  could  see  the  lawns  and  hedges  of  the 
garden  and  across  the  dark  now  and  again  some  white  figure 
showed  for  an  instant  and  was  gone.  The  house  behind  the 
shadows  rose  sharp  and  black. 

Roddy  looked  big  and  solid  sitting  there.  Rachel  sat, 
even  now  uncertain  that  she  did  not  see  Francis  Breton  in 
front  of  her,  looking  down,  as  she  did,  into  the  shadowy 
garden. 

"  I  hope,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  that  you  don't  like  Monty 
Carfax." 

"  I've  never  thought  about  him,"  he  said.  "  He's  cer- 
tainly no  pal  of  mine  —  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  hate  him,"  she  said  fiercely.  "  What  right  has 
he  got  to  exist  on  a  night  like  this  ?  " 

"  He's  always  supposed  to  be  a  very  clever  feller,"  Roddy 
said  slowly.  "  But  I  think  him  a  silly  sort  of  ass  —  knows 
nothin'  about  dogs  or  horses,  can't  play  any  game,  only  talks 
clever  to  women " 

"  I  can't  bear  that  sort  of  man  and  I  don't  like  Mr.  Garden 
either.     He's  so  fat  and  he  loves  his  food." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Roddy  quite  simply.  "  I  love  it  too.  It 
was  a  jolly  good  dinner  to-night." 

She  said  nothing  and  then,  when  he  had  waited  a  little,  he 
said  anxiously : 

"  I  say,  Miss  Beaminster,  weVe  been  such  jolly  good  friends 
—  all  these  weeks.  And  yet  —  sometimes  —  I'm  afraid  you 
think  me  the  most  awful  fool " 

She  laughed.  "  I  think  you  are  about  some  things,  but 
then  —  so  am  I  about  a  good  many  things  —  most  of  your 
things " 


DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGER  — I  165 

''  Look  here,  Miss  Beaminster  —  I  wish  you'd  help  me 
about  things  I'm  an  ass  in.  You  can,  you  know  —  I'd  be 
most  awfully  glad." 

"  What,"  she  said,  turning  round  and  facing  him,  "  are  the 
things  you  really  care  about  ?  " 

"  The  things  ?  .  .  .  xjare  about  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  really " 

"  Well !  Oh !  animals  and  bein'  out  in  the  open  and 
shootin'  and  ridin'  and  fishin'  —  any  old  exercise  —  and 
comin'  up  to  town  for  a  buck  every  now  and  again,  and  then 
goin'  back  and  seein'  no  one,  and  my  old  place  and  —  oh !  I 
don't  know,"  he  ended. 

"  You  wouldn't  tell  anyone  a  lie,  would  you,  about  things 
you  liked  and  didn't  like  ?  " 

"  It  wouldn't  be  much  use  if  I  did,"  he  said,  laughing. 
"  They'd  find  me  out  in  a  minute " 

"  No,  but  would  you  ?  If  you  were  with  a  number  of  peo- 
ple who  thought  art  the  thing  to  care  about  and  knew  nothing 
about  dogs  and  horses,  would  you  say  you  cared  about  art 
more  than  anything  ? '' 

"  No,"  he  said  slowly.  "  No  —  but  sometimes,  you  see, 
pictures  and  music  and  such  do  please  me  —  like  anything  — 
I  can't  put  into  words,  but  I  might  suddenly  be  in  any  old 
mood  —  for  pictures,  or  your  uncle's  fans,  or  dogs  or  the 
Empire  or  these  jolly  old  stars  —  Why,  there,  you  see  I  just 

let  it  go  on  —  the  mood,  I  mean,  till  it's  over "     Then 

he  added  with  a  great  sigh,  "But  I  am  a  dash  fool  at  ex- 
plainin' " 

"  But  I  know  you  wouldn't  be  like  Mr.  Garden  or  Mr. 
Carfax  —  just  pretending  not  to  like  the  thing  because  it's  the 
thing  not  to.  Or  like  Aunt  Adela,  who  picks  up  a  phrase 
about  a  book  or  picture  from  some  clever  man  and  then  uses 
it  everywhere." 

"  I  should  never  remember  it  —  a  phrase  or  anythin' —  I 
never  can  remember  what  a  feUer  says " 

"  Oh !     I  know  you'd  always  be  honest  about  these  things. 


156  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

I  feel  jOTi  would  —  about  everything.  It's  all  these  lies  that 
are  so  impossible:  I  think  I've  come  to  feel  now  after  this 
first  season  that  the  only  thing  that  matters  is  being  straight. 
It  is  the  only  thing  —  if  a  person  just  gives  you  what  they've 
got  —  what  they've  got,  not  what  someone  else  is  supposed  to 
have.  May  Eversley  used  to  say  that  people's  minds  are  like 
soup  —  thick  or  clear  —  but  they're  only  thick  because  they 
let  them  get  thick  with  other  people's  opinions  —  you  don't 
mind  all  this  ? "  she  said,  suddenly  pausing,  afraid  lest  he 
should  be  bored. 

"  It's  most  awfully  interestin',"  he  said  from  the  bottom  of 
his  heart. 

"  There  are  some  men  and  women  —  I've  met  one  or  two  — 
who're  just  made  up  of  Truth.  You  know  it  the  minute 
you're  with  them.  And  they'll  have  pluck  too,  of  course  — • 
Courage  goes  with  it.  Our  family,"  she  ended,  "  are  of 
course  the  most  terrible  liars  that  have  ever  been  — 
ever " 

"  Oh !     I  say "  he  began,  protesting. 

"  Oh !  but  yes  —  they  run  everything  on  it.  My  uncle 
[Richard  ran  through  Parliament  beautifully  because  he  never 
said  what  he  meant.  And  Aunt  Adela  —  and  Uncle  John, 
although  he's  a  dear.  But  then  my  grandmother  brought 
them  up  to  it.  My  grandmother  would  have  about  three 
clever  people  and  then  muddle  all  the  rest  so  that  the  three 
clever  ones  can  have  everything  in  their  hands " 

"  Look  here,"  he  broke  in,  "  I'm  most  awfully  fond  of  your 
grandmother  —  we're  tremendous  pals " 

"  You  may  be  —  I  hate  her.  Oh !  I  don't  hate  her  with 
melodrama,  I  don't  want  to  strangle  her  or  beat  her  face  or 
bum  her,  but  I'm  frightened  of  her  and  she's  always  making 
me  do  things  I'm  ashamed  of.  That's  the  best  reason  for 
hating  anyone  there  is." 

"  But  she's  such  a  sportsman.  One  of  the  old  kind. 
One ." 

"  Oh !  I  know  aU  that  you  can  say.     I've  heard  it  so  many 


DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGER  — I  157 

times.  But  she's  all  wrong.  There  isn't  any  good  in  her. 
She's  just  remorseless  and  selfish  and  stubborn.  She  thinks 
she  ran  the  world  once  and  she  wants  to  do  it  still." 

"  That's  all  rather  fine,  I  think,"  said  Roddy.  "  I  agree 
with  her  a  bit.  I  think  most  people  have  got  to  be  run  — 
they  just  can't  run  themselves,  so  you  have  to  put  things  into 
them." 

"Well,  that's  just  where  we  differ,"  she  said  sharply. 
^  It  isn't  so.  That's  where  all  the  muddle  comes  in.  If 
everyone  were  just  himself  without  anything  borrowed  — 
Oh !  the  brave  world  it'd  be " 

Then  she  laughed.  "  But  I'm  all  wrong  myself,  you  know. 
I'm  as  muddled  as  anyone.  I've  got  all  the  true,  real  me 
there,  but  all  the  Beaminster  part  has  slurred  it  over.  But 
I've  got  a  horrid  fear  that  Truth  gets  tired  of  waiting  too  long. 
One  day,  when  you're  not  expecting  it,  it  comes  up  and  says  — 
*  'N'ow  you  choose  —  your  only  chance.  Are  you  going  to  use 
me  or  not  ?  If  not,  I'm  going '' —  How  awful  if  one  didn't 
realize  the  moment  was  there,  and  missed  it" 

She  was  laughing,  but  in  her  heart  that  other  woman  in 
her  was  stirring.  For  a  startled,  trembling  second  the  wood 
seemed  to  flame,  the  gardens  to  blaze  with  the  challenge : 

"  Are  you,  for  the  sake  of  the  comfort  and  safety  of  life, 
playing  false  ?     Which  way  are  you  going  ?  " 

She  burst  into  laughter,  she  caught  Roddy  by  the  arm. 
"  Oh !  I've  talked  such  nonsense  —  It's  getting  cold  — 
we've  got  to  go  in.  Don't  think  I  talk  like  that  generally,  Sir 
Roderick,  because  I  don't  —  I " 

She  was  nervous,  frightened.  The  stars  were  so  many  and 
it  was  so  dark  and  Roddy  no  longer  seemed  a  protection. 

"  I  know  it's  late  —  Look  here,  I'm  going  to  run  —  Race 
me " 

She  tore  for  her  very  life  out  of  the  little  wood,  felt  him 
pounding  behind  her,  seized,  with  a  gasp  of  relief,  the  lights 
and  the  voices  — 

She  knew,  with  joy,  that  Roddy  was  closing  the  door  behind 


168  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

her  and  that  the  garden  and  the  stars  and  the  wood  were  shut 
into  silence. 

For  a  little  while,  in  the  drawing-room,  she  talked  excitedly, 
laughed  a  great  deal,  even  at  Monty  Carfax's  jokes. 

She  knew  that  they  were  all  thinking  that  she  was  pleased 
because  she  had  been  with  Roddy.  She  did  not  care  what 
their  thoughts  were. 

At  last  in  her  room  she  cried  to  Lucy  — *'  Pull  the  curtains 
tight  —  Tighter  —  Tighter  —  Those  stars  —  they'll  get 
through  anything." 

When  at  last  Lucy  was  gone  she  lit  her  candle  and  lay  there, 
hearing  the  clocks  strike  the  hours,  wondering  when  the  day 
would  come. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGER  — II 


RODDY,  dozing  after  a  night  of  glorious  sleep,  lay  on 
his  back  and  swung  happily  to  and  fro. 

The  footman  who  was  valeting  him  had  pulled  up  the  blind 
and  drawn  aside  the  curtains,  and  the  garden  came  to  him, 
not  as  on  last  evening,  weighted  with  its  canopy  of  stars,  but 
now  asserting  its  own  happiness  and  colour  and  freshness. 

The  man  said :  "  The  bathroom  is  the  last  door  down  the 
passage  on  your  right,  sir.  Breakfast  is  at  half-past  nine. 
It  has  just  gone  eight.     What  clothes,  sir  ?  " 

Eoddy  stared  at  him  and  smiled.  After  a  little  time,  the 
man  enquired  again :  "  Which  suit  will  you  wear  this  morn- 
ing, sir?" 

"  Dark  blue."  Eoddy,  still  happily  floating  somewhere 
near  the  ceiling  —  floating  with  delicious  lightness  — "  Dark 
blue  —  Dark  blue  —  Dark  blue ^" 

For  a  little  while  the  man,  a  strange  vague  shape,  pulled 
out  drawers  and  closed  them  and  walked  about  the  floor, 
like  Agag,  delicately.  Roddy,  from  the  ceiling  watched  him 
and  resented  the  fact  that  every  sharp  click  of  a  drawer  pulled 
him  nearer  to  the  carpet. 

The  man's  final  shutting  of  the  bedroom  door  plumped 
Roddy  into  his  bed,  wide  awake. 

"  Damn  him !     What  a  wonderful  day !  " 

He  lay  back  and  watched  how  waves  of  light  danced  on 
the  walls.  A  fountain  splashed  in  the  gardens  and  the  long 
mirror  on  the  right  of  the  bed  had  in  it  the  comer  of  the  green 
lawn  and  the  cool  grey  stones  of  an  old  wall. 

Roddy  lay  on  his  back  and  allowed  his  sensations  to  run 
llD  and  down  his  body.     It  was  for  moments  such  as  this  that 

159 


160  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

his  life  was  intended.  He  lived,  deliberately  and  without 
any  selfishness  in  the  matter,  for  the  emotions  that  the  good 
old  god  Pan  might  choose  to  provide  for  him. 

He  did  not  know  Pan  hy  name  except  as  a  silly  fancy  dress 
that  Monty  Carfax  had  once  worn  at  a  fancy-dress  dance  and 
as  Someone  alluded  to  every  now  and  again,  vaguely,  in  the 
papers,  but  even  though  he  did  not  call  him  by  name  he, 
nevertheless,  paid,  without  question,  his  daily  homage. 

When,  as  on  this  beautiful  morning,  one  had  only  to  lie 
down  and  be  instantly  conscious  of  a  thousand  things  —  sheep 
moving  slowly  across  hills,  cattle  browsing  in  deep  pools,  those 
Downs  that  he  loved  rising,  slowly,  like  aged  men,  to  greet 
a  new  day  —  then  one  questioned  nothing,  one  argued  nothing, 
one  needed  no  words,  one  was  happy  from  the  crown  of  one's 
head  to  the  toes  of  one's  feet. 

On  this  especial  morning  these  delights  were  connected 
with  the  fact  that,  during  the  day,  he  intended  to  propose 
marriage  to  Rachel  Beaminster.  He  thought  of  her,  now,  aa 
she  had  looked  last  night,  sitting  in  that  wood,  in  a  pale  blue 
dress,  with  the  stars  behind  her,  staring,  so  seriously,  down 
into  the  garden.  She  had  been  very  beautiful  last  night,  and 
it  had  been  a  splendid  moment  —  not  more  splendid  than 
other  moments  that  he  had  had,  but  splendid  enough  to  remem- 
ber. 

He  was  always  prepared  for  the  necessity  of  the  short  dura- 
tion of  his  sensations.  He  had  discovered,  when  he  was  very 
young,  that  nothing  lasted  and  that  the  things  that  lasted  the 
shortest  time  were  generally  the  best  things,  and  therefore  he 
had,  quite  unconsciously,  trained  himself  to  store  his  memory 
with  splendid  moments ;  now,  although  he  had  no  memory  at 
all  for  any  sort  of  facts  or  books  or  histories,  he  could  recall 
precisely,  in  all  their  forms  and  colours,  scenes,  persons,  ad- 
ventures that  had,  at  any  time,  thrilled  him. 

He  could  remember  days ',  once  when,  as  a  little  boy,  he  had 
been  overtaken  by  night  on  the  Downs  and  had  sheltered  in  a 
deserted  house,  black  and  evil,  that  had,  he  afterwards  dis- 


DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGER  — II  161 

«)vered,  been,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  a  private  mad-house ; 
once  when  the  sea  had  been  green  and  purple,  the  sky  black, 
and  he  had  discovered  a  star-fish  for  the  first  time  (very 
young  on  that  occasion)  ;  once  when  his  horse  had  run  away 
with  him  and  the  danger  had  been  exceeded  by  the  glorious 
speed  through  the  air  .  .  .  many,  many  others,  all  to  be 
counted  by  him  to  their  very  least  detail,  and  now,  of  some  of 
them,  Rachel  Beaminster  was  the  central  figure. 

He  had  had  relations  of  many  kinds  with  many  different 
women  and  never  until  now  had  he  supposed,  for  an  instant, 
that  these  relations  would  be  permanent.  Even  now,  although 
he  was  intending  to  marry  Rachel  Beaminster,  he  was  not  so 
foolish  as  to  imagine  that  the  freshness  and  novelty  of  the 
feeling  that  he  now  had  for  her  would  last  more  than  a  very 
short  time. 

Quite  deliberately  he  treasured  up  in  his  mind  a  thousand 
pictures  of  her,  as  he  had  seen  her  during  the  last  two  months, 
so  that  when  the  time  came  for  seeing  her  no  longer  in  that 
way,  he  would  have  his  memories :  there  was  the  time  of  her 
first  ball,  all  excitement  and  happiness,  the  day  at  her  uncle's 
when  she  had  looked  at  him  over  the  top  of  the  fans,  the  night 
at  the  opera  when  she  had  been  so  angry  with  him,  last 
night  — 

She  had,  through  all  this  time,  remained  elusive.  He  did 
not  know  her,  could  not  reconcile  one  inconsistency  with  an- 
other —  but  he  thought  that  she  cared  about  him  and  would 
marry  him. 

He  had  always  known  that  he  must  one  day  marry.  That 
necessity  was,  in  no  way,  connected  with  the  emotional  side 
of  him,  it  rather  had  its  relationship  with  the  common  sense 
of  him,  the  part  that  believed  in  the  Beaminsters  and  all  their 
glory. 

He  must  marry  because  Seddon  Court  must  have  a  mistress, 
because  he  himself  must  have  children,  because  he  would  like 
to  have  someone  there  to  be  kind  to.  That  need  in  him  for 
bestowing  kindness  upon  someone  was  always  most  urgent. 


162  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

and  all  sorts  of  animals  and  all  sorts  of  persons  had  shared  H 
—  now  one  person  -would  have  it  all.  He  could  not  bear  to 
hurt  anyone  or  anything,  and  the  crises  of  his  life  were  pro- 
vided by  those  occasions  when,  in  the  delight  of  one  of  his 
emotional  moments,  hurting  somebody  was  involved  —  there 
was  always  then  a  conflict. 

He  knew  that  it  was  just  here  that  the  Duchess  failed  to 
understand  him.  She  liked  hurting  people  and  expected  him 
to  be  amused  when  she  told  him  little  stories  about  her  having 
done  so.  He  had  now  a  kind  of  dim  feeling  that  it  was  be- 
cause the  Duchess  hoped  that  he  was  going  to  hurt  Rachel 
that  she  had  prosecuted  so  strenuously  his  marriage. 

He  trusted  with  all  his  heart  that  he  would  never  hurt 
Eachel,  he  intended  always  to  be  very,  very  kind  to  her;  it 
was  indeed  a  thousand  pities  that  the  present  quality  of  his 
attitude  to  her  must,  like  all  attitudes,  eventually  change. 

But  he  was  always  —  he  was  sure  of  this  —  going  to  be  good 
to  her  and  give  her  everything  that  the  mistress  of  Seddon 
Court  should  have. 

At  the  same  time,  vaguely,  he  wished  that  the  old  Duchess 
had  had  nothing  to  do  with  this;  sometimes  he  wondered 
whether  the  side  in  him  that  found  pleasure  in  her  was  really 
natural  to  him. 

Whenever  he  thought  of  her,  she,  in  some  way,  confused 
his  judgment  and  made  life  diflBcult. 

She  was  doing  that  now.  .  .  , 

n 

When  he  came  down  to  breakfast  he  found  that  he  was  the 
last.  He  sat  next  to  Nita  Easeley  and  was  conscious,  after  a 
little  time,  that  she  was  behaving  with  a  certain  reserve.  He 
had  known  her  in  the  kind  of  way  that  he  knew  many  people 
in  his  own  set  in  London,  pleasantly,  indifferently,  without 
curiosity.  She  had,  however,  attracted  him  sometimes  by  the 
impression  that  she  gave  him  that  she  was  too  young  to  know 
many  men,  but.  however  long  she  lived,  would  never  find 


DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGEE  — II  163 

anyone  as  splendid  as  he:  she  had  certainly  never  been  re- 
served before.  Finally  he  realized  that  she  expected  to  hear 
of  his  engagement  to  Rachel  Beaminster  at  any  moment. 
"  Well,  so  she  will,"  he  thought,  smiling  to  himself.  Mean- 
•while  he  avoided  Rachel  quite  deliberately. 

He  was  now  self-conscious  about  her  and  did  not  wish  to  be 
with  her  until  he  could  ask  her  to  marry  him.  'No  more  un- 
certainty was  possible.  He  felt,  not  frightened,  but  excited, 
just  as  he  would  feel  were  he  about  to  ride  a  dangerous  horse 
for  the  first  time. 

He  seized,  with  relief,  upon  the  proposal  of  church;  he 
wanted  the  morning  to  pass ;  his  prayer  was  that  she  would 
not  walk  to  church  with  him,  because  he  had  now  nothing  to 
say  to  her  except  the  one  thing.  When  he  heard  that  she  was 
staying  behind  and  walking  with  Nita  Raseley  he  was  sur- 
prised at  his  own  sense  of  release. 

Lady  Adela  was  kind  to  him  this  morning  in  a  sort  of 
motherly  way  and  apparently  seized  on  his  going  to  church 
as  an  omen  of  his  future  married  happiness. 

"  They're  all  waiting  to  hear,"  he  said  to  himself. 

They  were  to  walk  across  the  park  to  the  little  village 
church,  and  when  they  set  out  he  was  conscious  that  Lord 
John,  like  a  large  and  amiable  bird,  was  hovering  about  him : 
finally,  Lord  John,  nervous  apparently,  most  certainly  em- 
barrassed, settled  upon  him. 

"  Going  to  church,  aren't  you,  Roddy  ?  " 

"Yes,  Beaminster." 

"  Well,  let's  strike  off  together,  shall  we  ?  " 

Roddy  liked  Lord  John  best  of  the  Beaminster  brothers; 
the  Duke  he  could  not  endure  and  Lord  Richard  was  so 
superior,  but  Johnny  Beaminster  was  as  amiable  as  an  Easter 
egg  and  fond  of  race  meetings  and  pretty  women,  and  not  too 
dam'  clever  —  in  fact,  really,  not  clever  at  all. 

But  Johnny  Beaminster  embarrassed  was  another  matter 
and  Roddy  found  soon  that  this  embarrassment  led  to  his  own 
confusion. 


164  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

Lord  John  flung  out  little  remarks  and  little  whistles  he* 
cause  of  the  heat  and  little  comments  upon  the  crops.  He 
©hviously  had  something  that  he  very  much  wanted  to  say  — 
"  Of  course,"  thought  Roddy,  "  this  is  something  to  do  with 
Kachel  —  he's  very  fond  of  Rachel." 

Although  Johnny  Beaminster  had  not,  in  strict  accuracy, 
himself  the  reputation  of  the  whitest  of  Puritans,  yet  Roddy 
wondered  whether  perhaps  he  were  not  now  worrying  over 
some  of  Roddy's  past  history,  as  rumoured  in  London  soci- 
ety. 

"  Doesn't  want  his  girl  to  be  handed  over  to  a  reg'lar  Black 
Sheep,  shouldn't  wonder,"  thought  Roddy,  and  this  led  him  to 
rather  indignant  consideration  of  the  confusion  of  the  Bea- 
minster  mind  and  its  muddled  moralities. 

The  walk  to  the  church  was  not  very  long,  but  it  became, 
towards  the  close  of  it,  quite  awful  in  its  agitation. 

"  Dam'  hot,"  said  Lord  John. 

"  Very,"  said  Roddy. 

"  Wouldn't  wonder  if  this  weather  broke  soon " 

"  Quite  likely." 

"  Makes  you  hot  walking  to  church  this  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  Yes  — don't  it  ?  Farmers  will  be  wantin'  rain  pretty 
badly.  Down  at  my  little  place  they  tell  me  it's  dried  up  like 
anythin' " 

"  Reg'lar  Turkish  bath " 


"  Well,  the  church  ought  to  be  cool 

"  You  never  know  with  these  churches 


Roddy  thought  "  He's  afraid  of  his  old  mother.  Doesn't 
want  me  to  marry  Rachel,  but  he's  afraid  of  his  old  mother." 

"  Massiter's  getting  fat "  This  was  Lord  John's  con- 
tribution. 

"  Yes  —  so's  that  novelist  feller " 

"  Oh !     Garden !     Yes  —  ever  read  anything  of  his  ? '' 

"  Never  a  line.     Never  read  novels." 

"  Not  bad  —  good  tales,  you  know," 


DEFIANCE  OF  THE  TIGEK  —  II  165 

•*  He's  probably/'  Roddy  thought,  "  had  a  row  with  the 
old  lady  about  me " 

Then,  strangely  enough,  the  notion  hit  him  — "  Wish  it  was 
he  wanted  me  to  marry  Rachel  and  the  Duchess  didn't  — 
Wish  she  didn't,  by  Gad." 

As  they  entered  the  church  Roddy  might  have  seen,  had  be 
been  gifted  in  psychology,  that  there  was  in  Lord  John's 
face  the  look  of  a  man  who  had  fought  a  battle  with  his  dark 
angel  and  been,  alas,  defeated. 

MI 

After  luncheon  Roddy  said : 

"  Miss  Beaminster,  come  for  a  walk  ?  " 

"  A  little  way,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  her  eyes  in 
that  straight  direct  way  that  she  had. 

"  She  must  know,"  said  Roddy  to  himself,  "  that  I'm  going 
io  do  it  now.     They  all  know.     It's  awful !  " 

Some  of  the  others  had  gathered  together  under  a  great  oak 
that  shaded  the  central  lawn,  and  now  as  he  climbed  the  hill 
with  his  capture  he  felt  that  from  beneath  that  tree  many 
eyes  watched  them. 

They  did  not  go  very  far.  At  the  top  of  the  hill,  above  the 
little  wood  and  the  gardens  and  the  house,  there  was  a  grassy 
hollow,  and  under  this  grassy  hollow  a  great  field  of  wheat, 
a  sheet  of  red-gold  with  sudden  waves  and  ripples  in  it  as 
though  some  hand  were  shaking  it,  ran  down  to  the  valley. 

"  Let's  stop  here,"  Rachel  said.  "  I  was  out  all  this  morn- 
ing with  Nita  Raseley  and  it's  too  hot  for  any  exertion  what' 
ever." 

A  tree  shaded  them  and  they  sat  down  and  watched  the 
corn. 

"  What  sort  of  a  girl  do  you  think  she  is  —  Nita  Raseley,  I 
mean  ?  "  asked  Rachel. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know  —  the  ordinary  kind  of  girl  — 
why?" 

"  She  seems  to  want  to  know  me.  Says  that  she  hasn't 
many  friends.     Is  that  true  ?     I  thought  she  had  heaps •" 


168  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

"  You  never  can  tell  with  girls.  You're  all  so  uncertain 
fibout  one  another  —  devoted  one  moment  and  enemies  the 
next." 

"  Are  we  ?  "  said  Eachel  slowly.  "  I  don't  think  I'm  like 
that  —  Oh !  how  hot  it  is  I  "  She  lay  back  against  the  grass 
with  her  arms  behind  her  head. 

"  Do  you  like  me  ?  "  Eoddy  said  suddenly. 

"I?  .  .  .  Youl" 

She  slowly  sat  up  and  he  saw  at  once  that  she  knew  now 
what  he  was  going  to  say.  At  that  moment,  sitting  there, 
staring  at  him,  with  her  breasts  moving  a  little  beneath  her 
white  dress  and  her  hands  pressing  flatly  against  the  grass,  in 
her  agitation  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  of  some  suddenly  evoked 
personality  that  he  did  not  know  at  all  she  was  more  elusive 
to  him  than  she  had  ever  been  — 

She  was  frightened  —  and  also  glad  —  but  the  change  in 
her  from  the  girl  he  had  known  all  the  summer  was  so  start- 
ling that  he  felt  that  he  was  about  to  propose  to  someone  he 
had  never  seen  before. 

"  Do  I  like  you  ?  "  she  repeated  slowly,  and  her  lips  parted 
in  a  smile. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  hands  that  seemed  to  belong 
to  the  earth  into  which  they  were  pressing  — "  Because  I  want 
you  to  marry  me ^" 

The  moment  of  her  surprise  had  come  before  —  now  she 
only  said  very  quietly  — 

"  Why  —  what  do  you  know  about  me  ?  " 

"  I  know  —  enough  —  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  stumbling  over 
his  words.  He  was  now  afraid  that,  after  all,  she  intended  to 
refuse  him,  and  the  terror  of  this  made  his  heart  stop.  No 
words  would  come.  He  stared  at  her  with  all  the  fright  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Roddy  "  (she  had  never  called  him  that  before),  "  do 
you  care " 

Then  she  stopped. 

8he  began  again.     "  I  don't  want  to  talk  nonsense.     I  want 


DEFIAITCE  OF  THE  TIGEE  — II  167 

to  say  exactly  what  I  feel.  I  suppose  most  girls  would  want 
to  be  free  a  little  longer,  would  want  to  have  a  good  time  an- 
other two  or  three  seasons  —  but  I  don't  —  I  hate  being  free 

—  I  want  somebody  to  keep  me,  to  prevent  my  doing  silly 
things,  to  look  after  me  .  .  ,  and  .  .  .  I'd  rather  you  did  it 

—  than  anybody  else  .  .  ."  Then  she  went  on  quickly  — 
"  But  it  is  more  than  that.  I  do  like  you  most  awfully,  only 
I  suppose  I'm  not  the  kind  of  girl  to  be  frantically  excited,  to 
be  wild  about  it  all.  I'm  not  that.  I  do  like  you  —  better 
than  any  other  man  I  know  —  Is  that  enough  ?  " 

"  I  think  —  we  can  be  most  awfully  good  pals  —  always," 
he  said. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried  suddenly,  putting  her  hand  on  his  and 
looking  straight  into  his  face.  "  That's  what  I  want  —  that, 
that  —  If  that's  it,  and  you  think  we  can,  why  then,  I'd  rather 
marry  you,  Roddy  dear,  than  anyone  in  the  world." 

"  Then  it's  settled,"  he  said.  But  he  did  not  take  her  hand 
or  touch  her.  They  sat  for  quite  a  long  time,  looking  at  tho 
rippling  com  and  the  house,  that  was  like  a  white  boat  sail- 
ing on  the  green  far  below  them. 

They  said  no  word. 

Then,  without  speaking,  they  got  up  from  the  grass  and 
walked  down  the  path  to  the  little  wood.  But  when  they 
came  to  the  place  where  they  had  been  the  night  before  he 
jcaught  her  to  him  so  furiously  that  his  own  body  was  bent 
back;  and  he  kissed  her  again  and  again  and  again. 


BOOK  II 
RACHEL 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  POOL  AND  THE  SNOW 

Tor  now  doors  open,  and  war  is  waged  with  the  snow. 
And  trains  of  sombre  men,  past  tale  of  number, 
Tread  long  brown  paths,  as  toward  their  toil  they  go: 
But  even  for  them  awhile  no  cares  encumber 
Their  minds  diverted;  the  daily  word  is  unspoken, 
The  daily  thoughts  of  labour  and  sorrow  slumber 
At  the  sight  of  the  beauty  that  greets  them,  for  the  charm  they  have 
brrfcen." 

ROBEST   BBIDGGS. 


IiST  the  early  days  of  tlie  December  of  that  year,  1898,  the 
first  snow  fell. 

Francis  Breton,  standing  at  his  window  high  up  in  the 
Saxton  Square  house,  watched  the  first  flakes,  as  they  came, 
lingering,  from  the  heavy  brooding  sky ;  as  he  watched  a 
great  tide  of  unhappiness  and  restlessness  and  discontent 
swept  over  him.  His  was  a  temperament  that  could  be  raised 
to  heaven  and  dashed  to  hell  in  a  second  of  time ;  life  never 
showed  him  its  true  colours  and  his  sensitive  suspicion  to  the 
signs  and  omens  of  the  gods  gave  him  radiant  confidence  and 
utter  despair  when  only  a  patient  quiescence  had  been  in- 
tended. During  the  last  three  months  he  had  risen  and  fallen 
and  risen  again,  as  the  impulse  to  do  something  magnificent 
somewhere  interchanged  with  the  impulse  to  do  something 
desperate  —  meanwhile  nothing  was  done  and,  standing  now 
staring  at  the  snow,  he  realized  it. 

He  had  never,  in  all  his  days,  known  how  to  moderate.     If 

he  might  not  be  the  hero  of  society  then  must  he  be  the  famous 

outcast,  in  one  fashion  or  another  London  must  ring  with 

his  name. 

And  yet  now  here  had  he  been  in  London  since  the  end  of 

171 


172  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

April  and  nothing  had  occurred,  no  steps,  beyond  that  first 
letter  to  his  grandmother,  had  he  taken.  He  had  not  eveifir 
responded  to  the  advances  made  to  him  by  his  old  associates, 
he  had  seen  no  one  save  Christopher,  Brun  once  or  twice,  the 
Bands  and  his  cousin  Rachel. 

Throughout  this  time  he  had  done  v^hat  he  had  never  done 
before,  he  had  waited.     For  what  ? 

A  little  perhaps  he  had  expected  that  the  family  would  take 
some  step.  Looking  back  now  he  knew  that  the  shadow  of 
his  grandmother  had  been  over  it  all.  He  had  always  seen 
her  when  he  had  contemplated  any  action,  seen  her,  and,  deny 
it  as  he  might,  feared  her.  She  confused  his  mind ;  he  had 
never  been  very  readily  clear  as  to  reasons  and  instincts  — 
he  had  never  paused  for  a  period  long  enough  to  allow  clear 
thinking,  but  now,  through  all  these  weeks,  he  had  been 
conscious  that  that  same  clear  thinking  would  have  come  to 
him  had  not  his  grandmother  clouded  his  mind.  He  felt  her 
as  one  feels,  in  a  dream,  some  power  that  prevents  our  move- 
ment, holds  us  fascinated  —  so  now  he  was  held. 

The  other  great  force  persuading  him  to  inaction  was 
Rachel  Beaminster,  now  Rachel  Seddon. 

Long  before  his  return  to  England  the  thought  of  this 
cousin  of  his  had  often  come  to  him.  He  would  speculate 
about  her.  She,  like  himself,  was  by  birth  half  a  rebel,  she 
must  be  —  She  must  be.  He  had  sometimes  thought  that  he 
would  write  to  her,  and  then  he  had  felt  that  that  would 
not  be  fair.  Behind  all  his  dreams  and  romances  he  always 
saw  some  destiny  whose  colours  were  woven  simply  for  him, 
Francis  Breton,  and  this  confidence  in  an  especial  personally 
constructed  God  had  been  responsible  for  his  wildest  and  most 
foolish  mistakes. 

Often  had  he  seen  this  especial  God  bringing  his  cousin  and 
himself  together.  Always  he  had  known  that,  in  some  way, 
they  two  were  to  be  chosen  to  work  out,  together,  vengeance 
and  destruction  against  all  the  Beaminsters.  When,  there- 
fore, that  meeting  in  the  Rands'  drawing-room  had  taken  place 


THE  POOL  AKD  THE  SNOW  1Y3 

he  had  accepted  it  all.  She  was  even  more  wonderful  than  he 
had  expected,  but  he  had  known,  instantly,  that  she  was  his 
companion,  his  chosen,  his  fellow-traveller ;  between  them  he 
had  realized  a  claim,  implied  on  some  common  knowledge 
or  experience,  at  the  first  moment  of  their  meeting. 

From  the  age  of  ten,  when  he  had  been  petted  by  one  of 
his  father's  mistresses,  his  life  had  been  entangled  with 
women ;  some  he  had  loved,  others  he  had  been  in  love  with, 
others  again  had  loved  Mm. 

He  did  not  know  now  whether  he  were  in  love  with  Rachel 
or  no  —  he  only  knew  that  the  whole  current  of  his  life  was 
changed  from  the  moment  that  he  met  her  and  that,  until 
the  end  of  it,  she  now  would  be  intermingled  with  all  his 
history. 

At  first  so  sure  had  he  been  of  the  workings  of  fate  in  this 
matter  that  he  had  been  content  (for  the  first  time  in  all  his 
days)  to  wait  with  his  hands  folded.  During  this  period  all 
thought  of  action  against  the  Beaminsters  on  the  one  hand 
or  a  relapse  into  the  company  of  the  friends  of  his  earlier 
London  days  on  the  other,  had  been  out  of  the  question.  This 
certainty  of  Rachel's  future  alliance  with  himself  had  made 
such  things  impossibly  absurd. 

Then  had  come  the  announcement  of  her  engagement  to 
Seddon.  Eor  a  moment  the  shock  had  been  terrific.  He  had 
suddenly  seen  the  face  of  his  especial  God  and  it  was  blind 
and  stupid  and  dead.  .  .  . 

Then  swiftly  upon  that  had  come  thought  of  his  grand- 
mother. This  was,  of  course,  her  doing  —  Rachel  was  too 
young  to  know  —  She  would  discover  her  mistake :  the  engage- 
ment would  be  broken  off. 

During  this  time  he  had  met  Rachel  on  several  occasions, 
and  although  the  meetings  had  been  very  brief,  yet  always  he 
had  felt  that  same  unacknowledged,  secret  intimacy.  After 
every  meeting  his  confidence  had  risen,  once  again,  to  the 
skies. 

Then  had  come  the  news  of  her  marriage. 


lU  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Prom  that  moment  he  had  known  no  peace.  At  first  he 
tad  ■wildly  fancied  that  this  had  happened  because  he  had 
not  come  to  her  and  more  plainly  declared  himself ;  his  picture 
of  her  idea  of  him  was  confused  with  all  the  dramatic  untruth 
of  his  idea  of  her;  then,  interchanging  with  that,  had  come 
moods  when  he  had  seen  things  more  plainly  as  they  were^  and 
had  told  himself  that  all  relations  between  herself  and  him 
had  been  invented  by  himself,  that  any  kindness  that  she  had 
shown  him  had  been  kindness  sprung  from  pity. 

During  the  early  months  of  the  autumn  Rachel  and  her 
husband  were  abroad,  and  during  this  time,  Breton  told  him- 
self that  he  was  waiting  for  her  return  before  taking  any 
action.  Then  a  certain  Mrs.  Pont,  a  lady  whose  beauty  had 
been  increased  but  her  reputation  lessened  by  several  scandals 
and  a  tiresomely  querulous  Mr.  Pont,  had  suggested  to 
Francis  Breton  a  continuation  of  certain   earlier  relation- 


He  knew  himself  well  enough  to  be  surft  that  one  evening 
in  Mrs.  Font's  company  would  put  an  end  to  his  struggles, 
so  weak  was  he  in  his  own  knowledge  that  the  only  possible 
evading  of  a  conflict  was  by  the  denial  of  the  enemy's  very 
existence. 

He  denied  Mrs.  Pont  and,  throughout  those  dark  gloomy 
autumn  weeks,  clinging  to  Christopher  and  Lizzie  Rand, 
waited  to  hear  of  Rachel's  return. 

Although  he  would  confess  it  to  no  man  alive,  he  longed 
now,  with  an  aching  heart,  for  some  sort  of  reconciliation 
with  the  family.  He  would  have  astonished  them  with  his 
humility  had  they  given  him  any  sign  or  signal.  He  fancied 
that  Lord  John  or  even  the  Duke  might  come.  .  .  .  Once 
admitted  to  his  proper  rank  again  and  what  a  citizen  he  would 
be!  Vanish  for  ever  Mrs.  Pont  and  her  tribe  and  all  that 
dark  underworld  that  waited,  like  some  sluggish  but  confident 
monster,  for  his  inevitable  descent.  "Wild  phantasmic  plans 
crossed  his  brain  every  hour  of  every  day  —  nothing  came  of 


THE  POOL  AND  THE  SNOW  175 

it  all ;  only  when  at  last  it  was  announced  that  Sir  Roderick 
and  Lady  Seddon  had  returned  to  England  he  discovered 
that  he  had  nothing  to  do,  nothing  to  say,  no  step  to  take. 

That  return  had  been  at  the  end  of  October;  from  then 
until  the  end  of  November  he  waited,  expecting  that  she 
would  write  to  him;  still,  by  this  anticipation,  were  Mrs. 
Pont  and  Mrs.  Pont's  world  kept  at  bay. 

No  word  came.  Driven  now  to  take  some  step  that  would 
shatter  this  silence,  he  wrote  to  her  a  long  letter  about  noth- 
ing very  much,  only  something  that  would  bring  him  a  line 
from  her. 

For  ten  days  now  he  had  waited  and  there  had  come  no 
word.  As  these  first  flakes  of  snow  softly,  relentlessly,  fell 
past  his  window  the  nebulous  cloud  of  all  the  uncertainties, 
disappointments,  rebellions,  of  this  pointless  wasted  thing 
that  men  called  Life  crystallized  into  form  — "  I'm  no  good 

—  Life,  like  this,  it's  impossible  —  Pm  no  good  against  it 

—  Pd  better  climb  down.  .  .  ." 

And  here  the  irony  of  it  was  that  he'd  never  climbed  up. 

The  awful  moments  in  Life  are  those  that  threaten  us  by 
their  suspension  of  all  action.  "  Just  feel  what's  piling  up 
for  you  out  of  all  this  silence,"  they  seem  to  say.  Breton's 
trouble  now  was  that  he  did  not  know  in  what  direction  to 
move.  His  relation  to  Eachel  was  so  nebulous  that  it  could 
scarcely  be  called  a  relation  at  all. 

He  only  knew  that  she  alone  was  the  person  for  whom  now 
life  was  worth  combating.  He  had  told  her  in  his  letter  that 
she  could  help  him,  and  the  absence  of  an  answer  spoke  now, 
in  this  threatening  silence,  with  mighty  reverberating  voice. 
**  She  doesn't  care." 

Well  then,  who  else  is  there?  Almost  he  could  have 
fancied  that  his  grandmother,  there  in  the  Portland  Place 
house,  was  withdrawing  from  him  all  the  supports  in  which  ho 
trusted. 

Now  the  snow,  falling  ever  more  swiftly,  ever  more  stealth- 


176  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

ily,  seemed  to  be  with  him  in  the  room,  stifling,  choking, 
blinding. 

He  felt  that  if  he  could  not  find  company  of  some  kind  be 
would  go  mad,  and  so,  leaving  the  storm  and  the  silence  be- 
hind him  in  his  room,  he  went  to  find  Lizzie  Rand. 

II 

Lizzie  Rand  did  not  conceal  from  herself  now  that  she  loved 
him.  So  long  had  her  emotional  life  been  waiting  there,  un- 
desired,  that  now  it  could  be  kept  by  her  utterly  apart  from 
her  daily  habit,  but  it  became  a  flame,  a  fire,  that  lighted  with 
its  splendid  warmth  and  colour  the  whole  of  her  accustomed 
world.  She  indulged  it  now  without  restraint,  through  the 
long  dark  autumn  she  had  it  treasured  there;  she  did  not, 
as  things  then  were,  ask  for  more  than  this  splendid  knowl- 
edge that  there  was  now  someone  upon  whom  she  loved  to 
spend  her  care.  She  had  not  loved  to  spend  it  upon  her 
mother  and  sister,  but  that  had  been  a  duty  defined  and 
necessary.  "Now  everything  that  she  could  do  for  Breton  was 
more  fuel  to  fling  to  her  flame.  That  further  question  as  to 
whether  he  might  care  for  her  she  kept  just  in  sight,  but 
nevertheless  not  definite  enough  to  risk  the  absolute  challenge. 

At  least,  now,  as  the  weeks  passed,  he  sought  her  company 
more  and  more.  She  helped  him,  she  cheered  and  comforted 
him,  enough  for  her  present  need. 

Even,  beyond  it  all,  could  she  survey  herself  humorously. 
This  the  first  love  affair  of  her  life  made  her  smile  at  her 
capture  and  defeat. 

"  Well,  I'm  just  like  the  rest  —  And  oh !  I'm  glad,  I'm 
glad  that  I  am." 

Einally  she  knew  that  there  was  still  a  step  that  might  be 
taken,  between  them,  at  any  moment.  He  had,  she  knew, 
something  to  tell  her.  Again  and  again  lately  he  had  been 
about  to  speak  and  then  had  caught  the  impulse  back. 

This  too  she  would  not  examine  too  closely,  but  from  the 
moment  that  he  should  demand  from  her  definite  concrete 


THE  POOL  AND  THE  SNOW  177 

assistance,  from  that  moment  she  would  be  to  him  what  she 
knew  no  one  now  living  could  claim  to  be. 

Breton  was  glad  when  the  little  maid  told  him  that  Mrs. 
Eand  was  out,  but  that  Miss  Lizzie  was  at  home.  He  saw  her 
in  the  wajrm  cosy  room,  sitting  before  the  fire  with  her  toes 
on  the  fender  and  her  skirts  pulled  up,  drying  her  shoes. 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  at  him  and  told  him  to  sit  down, 
but  did  not  move  from  her  position. 

"  Mother's  out  at  a  matinee  with  Daisy.  I  got  away  early 
this  afternoon.     Do  you  hate  snow,  Mr.  Breton  ?  " 

"  I  hate  it  to-day.  I've  got  the  dumps.  I  had  to  find 
someone  to  talk  to  or  I'd  have  gone  screaming  into  the 
street " 

"  Couldn't  find  anyone  better,  so  took  me  —  thank  you  for 
the  compliment  But  I  like  the  snow.  Your  pool's  more 
like  a  pool  now  than  ever,  Mr.  Breton." 

He  went  across  to  the  window  and  stood  there  looking  at 
the  little  square  now  white  with  the  gaunt  trees  rising  black 
from  the  heart  of  it  and  the  grey  houses  that  hemmed  it  in. 
Over  it  the  snow,  yellow  and  grey  and  then  delicately  white, 
swirled  and  tossed. 

He  came  back  and  sat  down  beside  her  and  wondered  at 
her  neat  comfort  and  air  of  calm  control  of  all  her  emotions 
and  desires. 

She,  looking  at  him,  saw  that  he  was  ill.  Dark  lines  be- 
neath his  eyes,  his  cheeks  pale  and  an  air  of  picturesque 
melancholy  that  made  her  want  first  to  laugh  at  him  and  then 
toother  him. 

"  I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you,"  she  said,  nodding 
her  head. 

"What?" 

"  Something  to  do.  That's  what  you  want."  She  turned 
towards  him,  looking  at  him  with  a  little  smile  and  yet  with 
grave  seriousness  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh !  Mr.  Breton,  why  don't 
you?  What  is  the  use  of  sitting  here  month  after  month, 
doing  nothing,  just  waiting  for  something  to  happen  —  some' 


178  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

thing  that  can't  happen  unless  you  make  it?  Things  don't 
fall  into  people's  mouths  just  because  thej  sit  with  them 
open." 

He  coloured.  "  Everybody's  always  scolding  me,"  he  said. 
'*  Christopher  —  you  —  everybody.  Nobody  understands  — 
how  difficult  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off.  So  intangible  were  his  difficulties  that  no 
words  would  define  them,  and  yet,  God  knew,  they  were  real 
enough. 

"  I  know  — "  she  said,  nodding  her  head.  "  It's  the 
thought  of  them  all  at  Portland  Place  that's  holding  you  back. 
You  began  by  fancying  that  you  wanted  to  cut  their  throats, 
and  you  still  wouldn't  mind  slaughtering  them  if  only  they 
in  their  turn  would  do  something  definite.  It's  their  doing 
nothing  that  just  holds  you  up.  But  really  as  long  as  your 
grandmother's  alive  I'm  afraid  that  it's  no  good  thinking  of 
them.  When  she's  dead  —  and  she  canH  live  for  ever  —  any- 
thing may  happen.  Meanwhile  why  not  show  them  what 
you  can  do  ?  " 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  "  he  answered  her  fiercely.  "  I've 
never  been  brought  up  to  do  anything  —  except  what  I 
oughtn't  —  There's  my  arm  and  one  thing  and  another  — 
Besides,  there's  more  than  that  in  it,  Miss  Band.  It's  the 
fact  that  —  well,  that  there's  nobody  that  cares  that's  —  so 
freezing.     If  only  somebody  minded " 

As  he  spoke  Rachel  rose,  beautifully,  wonderfully,  before 
him.  There,  as  she  had  been  on  that  first  day  when  she  had 
had  tea  there,  bending  forward,  listening,  her  dark  wondering 
eyes  on  his  face. 

Lizzie  at  the  sound  of  the  appeal  in  his  voice  had  felt  her 
heart  expand,  beat,  so  that  her  body  seemed  to  hold,  sud- 
denly, some  great  possession  that  hurt  her  by  its  force  and 
urgency. 

But  she  answered  almost  sharply: 

"  Nonsense,  Mr.  Breton.  Excuse  me,  but  I've  no  patience 
.with  that  kind  of  thing.     People  are  meant  to  stand  alone. 


THE  POOL  AKD  THE  SNOW  179 

not  to  go  leaning  about  for  other  people's  support.  You're 
cursed  witli  too  mucli  imagination,  Mr.  Breton,  and  you 
remember  too  clearly  everything  that's  happened  before. 
Begin  now,  as  though  you  were  bom  yesterday,  and  startle 
the  family  by  your  energy " 

"  Now  you're  laughing  at  me,"  he  said  hotly.  "  I  dare  say 
I  deserve  it,  but  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  could  stand  —  very 
much  of  it  from  anyone  to-day " 

Then  he  was  astonished  by  the  sudden  softness  of  her  voice. 
"  'No,  no,  please,"  she  said ;  "  I  understand  so  well.  But 
indeed  you  have  got  friends  who  believe  in  you.  Dr.  Christo- 
pher, myself,  if  you'll  count  me,  and  lots  more.  You'll  win 
everyone  in  time  if  you're  not  impatient  and  don't  despair. 
Don't  think  of  your  grandmother  too  much.  The  mere  fact 
of  your  not  seeing  her  makes  you  imagine  her  as  something 
portentous  and  dreadful,  and  she  weighs  you  down,  but  she 
isn't  really  anything  at  all.  She  can't  stop  one's  energies  if 
one's  determined  to  let  them  go.  Please,  please  don't  think 
I'm  laughing.     I  only  want  to  help " 

"  I  know  you  do,"  he  answered  warmly,  "  I  owe  you  more 
than  I  can  say.  All  these  last  weeks  you  and  Christopher 
have  been  the  two  people  who've  held  the  world  together  for 
me.  But  there's  more  than  you  know,  Miss  Rand. 
There's " 

He  bent  towards  her.  She  knew  that  the  confidence  was  at 
last  to  be  hers.  It  needed  her  strongest  control  to  prevent 
the  trembling  of  her  hands.  His  eyes  were  alight,  his  whole 
body  eloquent.  At  the  thought  of  what  he  might  be  about  to 
tell  her  the  room  turned  before  her. 

Voices  in  the  little  hall.  Then  the  door  opened  and  in 
came  Mrs.  Rand  and  Daisy.  They  had  been  to  the  play  — 
Such  nonsense.  One  of  these  new,  serious  plays  with  long, 
long  conversations  —  Mrs.  Rand  wanted  tea.  Daisy  wanted 
admiration. 

Between  Lizzie  and  Breton  the  precious  cup  had  fallen, 
smashed  to  the  tiniest  atoms. 


180  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

Meanwhile  aimless  conversation  was  more  than  he,  in  his 
present  mood,  could  endure. 

He  made  some  excuse  and,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did, 
found  his  hat  and  coat  and  went  out  into  the  square. 

Ill 

There  had  come  to  him  one  of  those  agonies  of  lonelinesst 
that  no  argument,  no  reasoning  can  destroy. 

The  absence  of  any  letter  from  Rachel  seemed  to  show  that 
she  had  abandoned  him.  In  all  this  vast  thickly  peopled 
world  there  was  now  no  one  to  whom  his  presence  or  absence, 
his  fortunes  or  disasters  mattered.  The  snowstorm  gathered 
him  into  its  folds ;  the  snow  fell  against  his  mouth,  his  eyes, 
and  before  him,  behind  him,  around  him  there  was  a  world 
deserted  of  man,  houses  blind  and  without  life. 

The  snow  might  fall  now  to  the  end  of  time.  It  would 
creep  up  and  up,  falling  from  the  heavens,  rising  from  the 
earth,  swallowing  all  creation  —  the  end  of  the  world. 

He  pressed  into  the  park  and  there  under  the  trees  stretch- 
ing  like  gallows  against  the  throttling  sky  temptation  to  give 
it  all  up,  to  go  under  and  have  done  with  it  all,  leapt,  hot  and 
fierce,  upon  him.  Mrs.  Pont  and  the  others  were  waiting  for 
him.  They  would  be  good  to  him.  The  Upper  World  would 
not  hear  nor  see  nor  think  of  his  disasters,  and  slowly,  with 
the  others,  life  would  recede,  he  would  crumble  and  decay  and 
cease  to  care,  and  death  would  come  soon  enough. 

Then  the  wind  smote  his  face  and  tore  at  his  coat:  the 
snow  died  away,  beyond  the  black  bare  trees  a  very  faint 
yellow  bar  threaded  the  thick  grey  —  promise  that  the  storm 
was  at  an  end. 

Suddenly  with  the  cessation  of  the  storm  the  long  field  of 
white  seemed  good  and  restful,  and  beyond  the  park  the 
houses  showed  light  in  their  windows. 

The  yellow  spread  through  the  sky,  and  stars,  very  slowly, 
came  and  the  wind  died  away. 

Courage  filled  him.     Rachel  might  never  come  or  write  or 


THE  POOL  AND  THE  SNOW  181 

care,  but  he  would  make  the  thought  of  her  the  one  true  thing 
in  his  heart,  and  with  that  he  would  do  battle  so  long  as  he 
could. 

Christopher  and  Miss  Rand  ...  he  thought  of  them  as  he 
trudged  his  way  home  —  and  when  he  saw  the  white  silence 
of  Saxton  Square  and  the  golden  sky  breaking  above  its  peace 
and  quiet  he  thought  that,  for  a  time  longer,  he  would  keep 
his  place  and  hold  his  own. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

*'  Each    in    the    crypt    would    cry, 

*  But  one  freezes  here !  and  why  ? 

*  When  a  heart,  as  chill, 

*  At  my  own  would  thrill 

*  Back  to  life,  and  its  fires  out-fly? 
*  Heart,  shall  we  live  or  die  ? 

The  rest  .  .  .  settle  by-and-by!  '" 

ROBEBT    BBOWNINQ. 


RACHEL  at  Sedden  Court  watched,  from  her  -window, 
that  first  fallen  snow. 

Seddon  Court  is  about  three  miles  from  the  town  of  Lewes 
and  lies,  tucked  and  cornered,  under  the  very  brow  of  the 
Downs.  It  is  a  grey  little  house,  old  and  stalwart,  with  a 
courtyard  and  two  towers.  The  towers  are  Norman;  the 
rest  of  the  house  is  Tudor. 

Beyond  the  actual  building  there  are  gardens  that  run  to 
the  very  foot  of  the  Downs,  with  only  a  path  and  an  old  stone 
wall  intervening.  Above  the  house,  day  and  night,  year  after 
year,  the  Downs  are  bending ;  everything,  beneath  their  steady 
solemn  gaze,  is  small  and  restless;  as  the  colours  are  flung 
by  the  sun  across  their  green  sprawling  limbs  the  house,  at 
their  feet,  catches  their  reflected  smile  and,  when  the  sun  is 
gone  and  the  winds  blow,  cowers  beneath  their  frown ;  every- 
thing in  that  house  is  conscious  of  their  presenca 

Rachel  had  been  at  Seddon  Court  for  a  month  and  now, 
at  the  window  of  her  writing-room,  looking  across  the  garden, 
up  into  their  dark  shadows,  she  wondered  at  their  indiffer- 
ence and  monotony.  Anyone  who  had  known  her  before  her 
marriage  would  be  struck  instantly,  on  seeing  her  now,  by 
a  change  in  her. 


A  LITTLE  HOUSE  183 

Her  whole  attitude  to  the  world,  during  her  first  season  in. 
London,  had  been  an  attitude  of  wonder,  of  expectation,  of 
the  uncertainty  that  conies  from  expectation. 

With  that  expectation  were  also  alarm,  distrust,  and  it  was 
only  when  some  sudden  incident  or  person  called  happiness 
into  her  face  that  that  distrust  vanished. 

'Now  she  was  older,  that  hesitation  and  awkwardness  were 
gone,  but  with  their  departure  had  vanished,  too,  much  of 
her  honesty.  Her  dark  eyes  were  as  sincere  as  they  had  ever 
been,  but  to  anyone  who  had  known  her  before  her  attitude 
now  was  assumed.  iN'othing  might  catch  her  unprepared,  but- 
what  experiences  were  they  that  had  taught  her  the  need  for 
armour  ? 

Sitting  in  her  room  looking  on  to  a  lawn  that  would  soon  be 
white  and  to  Downs  obscured  already  by  the  thick  tumbling 
snow,  she  knew  that  she  was  unhappy,  disappointed,  even 
alarmed.  Suddenly  to-day  the  uneasiness  that  had  been 
gathering  before  her  throughout  the  last  weeks  assumed,  on 
this  afternoon,  the  definite  tangibility  of  a  challenge. 

"  What's  the  matter  —  with  me,  with  everything  ?  .  .  . 
What's  happened  ? " 

Her  room,  dark  green  and  white,  had  no  pictures,  but  a 
long  low  book-case  with  grave  handsome  books,  an  edition  of 
someone  in  red  with  white  paper  labels  and  another  edition 
of  someone  else  in  dark  blue  and  another  in  gold  and  brown, 
an  old  French  gilt  mirror,  square,  with  a  reflection  of  the 
garden  and  the  foot  of  the  Downs  in  it,  an  old  Queen  Anne 
rosewood  writing-table,  some  Queen  Anne  chairs,  a  gate- 
legged table  —  a  very  cool,  quiet  room. 

At  her  feet  with  his  head  resting  on  her  shoe  there  lay 
a  dog.  This  dog  about  a  fortnight  ago  she  had  found  in  a 
field  near  the  house  with  a  kettle  tied  on  to  his  tail,  and  his 
body  a  confused  catastrophe  of  mud  and  blood. 

She  had  carried  him  home;  it  had  needed  some  courage 
to  introduce  him  into  the  household,  for  Roddy  possessed 
many  dogs,  all  of  the  finest  breeds,  and  this  was  a  mongrel 


184  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

who  defied  description.  He  was  very  short  and  shaggy  and 
fitumpy.  He  was  much  too  large  for  a  Yorkshire  terrier  and 
yet  that  was  undoubtedly  his  derivation.  There  was  some- 
thing o£  a  sheep-dog  in  him  and  something  of  a  Skye;  his 
hair  fell  all  over  his  face  and,  when  you  could  see  them,  his 
eyes  were  brown.  His  nose  was  Hke  a  wet  blackberry  and 
his  ears  were  long  and  full  of  emotion ;  when  he  ran  his  short 
tail,  on  which  the  hairs  were  arranged  like  branches  on  a 
Christmas  tree,  stuck  up  into  the  air  and  he  resembled  a 
rabbit. 

In  the  confusion  of  the  moment  Rachel  had  called  him 
Jacob,  because  she  thought  that  Jacob  was,  in  the  Bible,  the 
"  hairy  one."  .  .  .  After  all,  you  could  not  call  a  dog  Esau. 

Yes,  to  retain  him  had  needed  courage.  Thinking  of 
noddy's  attitude  to  the  dog  brought  so  many  other  attendant 
thoughts  in  its  train.  Roddy  in  his  devotion  to  animals 
(and  oh!  he  was  devoted),  had  no  room  for  those  that  were 
not  of  the  aristocracy. 

Concerning  dogs  who  were  mongrels  he  was  kind  but 
thought  them  much  better  dead.  Unkind  he  would  never 
be,  but  the  way  in  which  he  ignored  Jacob  was  worse  than 
any  unkindness. 

Jacob,  sensitive  perhaps  from  early  suffering,  knew  this 
and  avoided  Roddy,  ran  out  of  the  room  when  he  came  into 
it,  showed  in  every  way  that  he  must  not  expect  to  rank  with 
the  other  dogs. 

Very  characteristic  this  attitude  of  Roddy,  but  very  char- 
acteristic, too,  the  affection  that  Jacob  was  now  receiving 
from  his  mistress.  There  was  something  that  Jacob  drew 
from  Rachel  that  none  of  the  fine,  noble  dogs  of  the  house 
was  able  to  secure.  .  .  .  Why?  .  .  .  What,  again,  was  the 
matter  ?     Why  was  Rachel  unhappy  ? 

Rachel  was  unhappy,  and  the  answer  came  quite  clearly 
to  her  as  the  room  was  darkened  by  the  great  storm  of  snow 
now  falling  over  the  Downs  and  the  garden,  because  mar- 
riage with  Roddy  had  not  lessened  in  any  way  that  uneasy 


A  LITTLE  HOUSE  185 

disquiet  that  Jiad  stirred,  without  pause,  heneath  her  life  be- 
fore her  marriage;  that  uneasiness  had,  indeed,  during  the 
last  three  months,  increased.  .  .  . 

Was  this  her  fault  or  Roddy's  ? 

Attacked  now  by  a  scrutiny  that  refused  dismissal  she 
delivered  herself  up  to  the  investigation  of  these  months  of 
her  married  life. 

She  knew  that  she  had  only  once  been  happy  since  her 
marriage  —  that  was  on  the  first  evening,  when,  the  noise 
and  clamour  of  the  London  wedding  having  died  away,  she 
had  walked  with  Roddy  in  the  peace  of  the  Massiter  garden 
(Lady  Massiter  had  lent  her  house  for  the  first  weeks  of  the 
honeymoon),  had  felt  his  arm  about  her,  had  believed  that 
there  had  really  come  to  her  that  comfort  and  safety  for 
which  she  longed. 

After  that  there  had  followed  a  fortnight  of  great  un- 
reality —  the  strangest  excitement,  the  most  adventurous 
wonders,  but  a  wonder  and  excitement  that  were  from  her- 
self, the  real  Rachel  Beaminster,  most  absolutely  removed. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  watched  closely  but  detached  the 
experiences  of  some  other  girl.  Roddy  had,  during  those 
times,  been  a  most  ardent  and  passionate  lover;  she  had 
tried  to  respond  and  had  hidden,  as  best  she  could,  her  fail- 
ure. 

Then,  suddenly,  with  the  time  of  their  going  abroad,  pas- 
sion had  left  him ;  it  had  left  him  as  swiftly  as  the  passing  of 
wind  over  a  hill.     It  was  there  —  it  was  gone. 

But  he  remained  the  perfect  husband.  His  kindness,  his 
charm,  his  simplicity,  his  affection  for  her  —  an  affection 
that  could  never  for  an  instant  be  doubted  —  these  things 
had  delighted  her.  He  was  now  the  friend,  the  strong  re- 
liant companion  that  she  had  wanted  him  to  be.  During 
those  first  weeks  in  Italy  and  Greece  happiness  might  have 
come  to  her  had  she  not  beer>  stirred  by  her  remembrance  of 
the  earlier  weeks.  The  passion  that  had  been  in  him,  al- 
though it  had  not  touched  her,  now  in  retrospect  lit  fires  fo» 


18'6  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

her  imagination.  Instantly  back  to  her  had  come  the  whole 
disquiet  and  unrest.  The  things  that  Roddy  called  from 
her  now,  she  suddenly  discovered  with  a  great  shrinking 
alarm,  were  all  the  Beaminster  things.  All  the  true  emo- 
tions, qualities,  traditions  that  made  up  her  secret  life  were 
roused  in  her  by  their  own  inherent  vitality,  never  by  hia 
evocation  of  them.  He  was  Beaminster  —  Roddy  was  Bea- 
minster. With  his  kindness  and  courtesy  his  eyes  saw  the 
world  vdth  the  eyes  of  his  ancestors,  his  tongue  spoke  the  lan- 
guage that  had  in  it  no  sincerity,  his  heart  wished  for  all  the 
ceremonies  and  lies  that  the  Beaminster  had  believed  in  since 
the  beginning  of  time. 

But  her  discovery  did  not  lead  her  much  further.  She 
had,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  always  known  that  Roddy  was  a 
Beaminster.  Why  then  had  she  married  him  ?  She  had 
married  him  because  she  had  been  untrue  to  herself,  because 
she  had  herself  encouraged  the  Beaminster  blood  in  her  to 
blind  her  eyes,  because  she  had  desired  deceit  rather  than 
truth,  because  she  had  wanted  the  comfort  that  the  man  could 
give  her  rather  than  the  man  himself,  because  she  had  muf- 
fled and  stifled  and  silenced  that  Power  in  her  —  the  Power 
that  made  her  restless  and  unquiet;  the  Power  that  was  as 
hostile  to  the  Beaminster  faith  as  heaven  is  to  hell  — 

And  yet  this  vehemence  of  explanation  did  not  altogether 
explain  Roddy.  Roddy  was  not  simply  a  Beaminster  like 
Uncle  John  or  Uncle  Richard  or  Aunt  Adela.  There  was  an 
elemental  direct  emotion  in  Roddy  that  was  exactly  opposed 
to  Beaminster  conventionality. 

These  two  elements  in  him  puzzled  and  even  frightened 
her.  His  attitude  during  that  first  fortnight  of  their  mar- 
riage she  saw,  again  and  again,  in  lesser  degrees  during  their 
time  abroad.  She  had  seen  him  so  primitive  in  his  joy  and 
excitement  over  places  and  people  and  moments  —  colour, 
food,  storms,  towns,  passers-by,  anything  —  that  she  had  been 
astounded  by  the  force  of  it.  Emotions  swept  over  him  and 
yjQTQ  gone,  but,  whilst  they  were  there,  she  knew  that  she 


A  LITTLE  HOUSE  ISY 

counted  to  him  for  nothing.  Strangest  of  ironies  that  when 
he  was  least  a  Beaminster,  then  was  she  farthest  from  him  — 
strangest  of  ironies  that  her  link  with  him  should  he  the  Bea- 
minster  in  him. 

She  was  frightened  of  his  primitive  passions.  She  had  in 
her  the  instinct  that  one  day  they  would  touch  his  relation- 
ship to  her  and  that  that  contact  would  rouse  in  her  the  full 
tide  of  the  unhappiness  of  which  she  was  now  so  conscious, 
and  that  then  .  .  .  what  might  not  happen  ?  .  .  . 

And  yet  behind  it  all  she  felt  a  strange,  almost  pathetic 
satisfaction  because  he,  after  all,  had  in  him,  just  as  she  had, 
his  two  natures  at  war.  There  at  least  they  found  some 
common  link;  her  eagerness  to  find  some  link  was  evidence 
enough  of  the  affection  she  had  for  him. 

After  their  return  to  England  the  wilder  nature  in  him  had 
extended  and  broadened.  Everything  to  do  with  Seddon 
Court  drew  it  out  of  him ;  his  passion  for  the  place  was  won- 
derful to  witness.  Every  stone  of  the  little  grey  building 
was  a  jewel  in  his  eyes;  the  servants,  the  cattle,  the  horses, 
the  dogs,  the  flowers,  the  villagers,  even  the  townspeople  of 
Lewes  drew  sentiment  from  him. 

"  My  old  place,"  he  would  say,  cuddling  it  to  himself ;  he 
was  never  "  sloppy "  about  it,  but  direct  and  simple  and 
straightforward.  It  was  obviously  the  great  emotion  above 
all  other  emotions. 

He  was  most  anxious  that  Rachel  should  share  this  with 
him,  and  during  her  first  weeks  there  she  thought  that  she 
would  do  go.  Then  the  disquiet  in  her  spread  to  the  place. 
The  house  spread  itself  out  before  her  now  as  the  lure  that 
had  from  the  beginning  tempted  her. 

"  It  was  for  this  place  and  quiet  that  you  were  false  to 
yourself " 

Roddy  felt  that  she  did  not  share  his  enthusiasm,  and 
their  difficulty  over  this  was  exactly  their  difficulty  over 
everything  else;  simply  that  Roddy  was  the  least  eloquent 
person  in  the  world.     He  could  explain  nothing  whatever  of 


188  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

the  vague  unliappmess  or  dissatisfaction  at  his  heart.  Rachel 
could  have  explained  a  great  many  things,  but  Roddy,  she 
felt,  would  only  look  at  her  in  his  kind  puzzled  way  and 
wonder  why  she  couldn't  take  things  as  they  were. 

Perhaps  during  these  last  weeks  he  had  himself  felt  that 
all  was  not  well.  Rachel  thought  that  sometimes  now 
through  all  his  kindness  she  detected  a  floating,  wistful  spee- 
Tilation  on  his  part  as  to  whether  she  were  happy. 

He  wanted  her  to  be  happy  —  most  tremendously  he 
wanted  it  —  and  did  she  explain  to  him  that  she  was  not 
happy  because  she  was,  now,  for  ever  attended  by  a  sense  of 
her  own  disloyalty  to  all  that  was  best  in  her,  he  would  have 
suggested  a  doctor  or  have  made  her  a  present. 

Had  she  been  some  stranger  and  had  the  case  been  pre- 
sented to  him  he  would  have  probably  dismissed  it  by  saying 
that  "  having  made  her  bed  she  must  lie  on  it."  "  After  all, 
she  married  the  feller  —  Well  then,  that's  her  look-out." 

So,  perhaps,  if  this  had  been  simply  her  trouble  she  would 
have  done  her  bravest  best  to  endeavour. 

But  there  was  more  behind  it  all  —  far,  far  more. 

She  saw  her  marriage  to  Roddy,  her  struggling  for  self- 
respect,  her  present  morbid  introspection  as  a  stage  in  what 
was  now  developing  into  a  duel  between  herself  and  her 
grandmother. 

Her  grandmother  had  planned  this  marriage.  Her  grand- 
mother was  determined  to  destroy  the  honesty  and  truth  in 
her  and  had  chosen  a  Beaminster  for  her  agent  and  now 
waited  happy  for  the  death  of  Rachel's  soul. 

But  Rachel's  soul  should  not  so  readily  die!  During  all 
these  weeks  the  thought  of  her  grandmother  had  been  con- 
tinually with  her.  How  she  hated  her,  and  with  what  fervour 
did  Rachel  return  that  hatred ! 

There  was  no  melodrama  in  this  hatred.  When  she  had 
been  a  very  little  girl  Rachel  had  somehow  believed  that  her 
grandmother  had  been  very  cruel  to  her  mother  and  father  — 
She  had  hated  her  for  that.     Then  she  had  seen  that  her 


A  LITTLE  HOUSE  189 

grandmother  disliked  her  and  wished  to  tease  her  —  so  she 
had  hated  her  for  that  also. 

Her  older  amplification  of  this  into  principles  and  instincts 
had  not  altered  the  original  vehemence  of  the  passion,  it  had 
only  given  it  grown-up  reasons  for  its  existence. 

And  so,  thinking  of  her  grandmother,  she  thought  also  of 
Francis  Breton, 

Some  weeks  ago  she  had  received  a  letter  from  him  and 
that  letter  was  now  lying  in  the  desk  of  her  writing^tahle. 

She  had  thought  that  her  marriage  would  have  snapped 
her  interest  in  her  cousin  because  it  would  have  broken  that 
hostility  with  her  grandmother  upon  which  her  relationship 
with  her  cousin  so  largely  depended.  But  now  when  she  saw 
that  marriage  had  only  intensified  her  hostility  to  the  Duch- 
ess, so  therefore  it  had  intensified  her  perception  of  Breton. 
His  letter  had  aroused  in  her,  just  as  contact  with  him 
aroused  in  her,  everything  in  her  that  now,  for  her  own  peace 
of  mind,  she  should  keep  at  bay.  His  letter  had  amounted 
to  this: 

"  You  are  a  rebel  as  I  am  a  rebel.  We  have  said  very  lit- 
tle, but  you  have  recognized  in  me  the  things  that  I  have  rec- 
ognized in  you.  You  have  escaped  through  marriage,  but  for 
me  there  is  no  escape,  and  if  you  would,  for  the  sake  of  those 
things  that  we  have  in  common,  keep  me  from  going  utterly 
under,  then  you  must  help  me  —  as  only  you  can." 

He  did  not  say  this  nor  anything  at  all  like  this.  He 
only,  very  quietly,  congratulated  her  on  her  marriage,  hoped 
that  she  would  be  very  happy,  said  that  London  was  a  little 
desolate  and  difficult,  hoped  that  she  would  not  think  more 
harshly  of  him  than  she  could  help,  and,  at  the  very  end,  told 
her  that  meeting  her  made  him  feel  that  he  was  not  entirely 
abandoned  by  everybody. 

It  was  the  letter  of  a  weak  man  and  she  knew  it,  but  it  was 
the  letter  of  a  man  who  was  weak  exactly  in  the  places  where 
she  also  failed.  And  this,  more  than  anything  else,  moved 
her. 


190  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

They  two  alone,  it  seemed,  were  struggling  to  keep  their 
feet  in  a  world  that  did  not  need  them.  It  had  been, 
through  these  months,  Rachel's  sharpest  unhappiness,  the 
consciousness  that  Roddy  and  indeed  everything  at  Seddon. 
Court  could  get  on  so  very  well  without  her. 

Nobody  in  London  needed  her  —  nobody  here  needed  her. 
If  you  accepted  the  Beaminster  doctrine,  then  no  wife  would 
demand  more  from  a  husband  than  Roddy  gave  Rachel  — 
but  was  this  not  simply  another  proof  that  Rachel  had  made 
a  Beaminster  marriage  ? 

Rachel  had  been  flung  straight  from  the  schoolroom  into 
marriage  and  the  sensitive  agonizing  cry  of  a  child  to  be  loved 
by  somebody  —  the  cry  that  had  always  been  so  urgent  in  her 
—  was  urgent  still. 

It  was  exactly  this  comfortable  sense  of  being  a  help  that 
Roddy  had  not  given  her.     Now  this  letter  gave  it  to  her. 

But  if  this  letter  was  an  appeal,  just  as  the  mongrel  Jacob, 
now  at  her  feet,  was  an  appeal,  on  the  part  of  someone 
wounded  and  outcast,  to  her  pity,  so  also  was  it  an  invitation 
to  rebellion. 

It  was  also  a  temptation  to  deceit  and,  did  she  answer  the 
letter,  she  encouraged  Breton  to  write  again;  she  opened  up 
not  only  a  new  relationship  to  him,  but  also  a  new  relation- 
ship to  all  the  forces  that  were  most  hostile  to  Roddy  and  her 
married  happiness.  May  Eversley  had  once  said  to  her: 
"  Sit  down  and  see,  without  any  exaggeration  or  false  colour- 
ing, what  you've  got.  Take  away,  ruthlessly,  anything  that 
you  imagine  that  you've  got  but  haven't.  Take  away  ruth- 
lessly everything  that  you  imagine  that  you  would  like  to 
have  but  are  not  confident  of  securing  —  See  what's  happened 
to  you  in  the  past  —  Take  away  ruthlessly  any  sentimental 
repentances  or  sloppy  regrets,  but  learn  quite  resolutely  from 
your  ugly  mistakes." 

Long  ago  she  had  written  this  down  —  now  was  the  first 
necessity  for  applying  it. 

The  doctrine  of  Truth  —  Truth  to  Oneself,  the  one  thing 


A  LITTLE  HOUSE  191 

iiiat  mattered.  She  knew  that  the  pursuit  of  Truth  was  to 
her,  and  to  every  rebel  against  the  Beaminsters,  the  restive 
Tiger.  In  marrying  Roddy  she  had  been  untrue  to  herself. 
In  writing  to  Breton  she  would  be  true  to  herself  but  untrue 
to  Roddy.  She  was  fond  of  Roddy  although  she  did  not 
love  him,  nor  did  he,  really,  love  her.  The  anxiety  on  both 
their  parts  to  avoid  hurting  one  another  was  proof  enough  of 
that,  she  thought. 

There  then  was  the  whole  situation.  As  she  felt  Jacob's 
warm  head  against  her  foot  a  great  agitation  of  loneliness  and 
dismay  and  helplessness  swept  over  her. 

Tears  were  in  her  throat  and  eyes  —  Then  with  a  strong 
disdain  she  pushed  it  all  from  her.  She  was  growing  mor- 
bid, losing  her  sense  of  humour  and  proportion.  Here  in  the 
house  there  was  Nita  Raseley  staying;  in  the  county  there 
were  people  to  be  called  upon,  to  be  invited,  to  be  interested 
in,  there  was  Roddy,  a  perfect  husband. 

She  strangled  that  other  Rachel,  there  in  her  room.  "  IsTow 
you're  dead,"  she  felt,  and  seemed  to  fling  a  lifeless,  crumpled 
figure  out  into  the  snow  — 

She  looked  at  herself  in,  the  glass. 

**  You're  not  Rachel  Beaminster  now  —  you're  Rachel  Sed- 
don.  Act  accordingly  and  don't  whine  — "  She  washed  her 
face  and  brushed  her  hair,  and  combed  Jacob's  hair  out  of 
his  eyes,  and  then,  determined  to  be  sensible  and  cheerful  and 
civilized,  went  down  to  tea. 


The  room  called  the  Library  was  the  pleasantest  room  in 
the  house;  an  old,  long,  low-ceilinged  room  with  windows 
that  stretched  from  floor  to  ceiling,  with  a  large  stone  open 
fireplace  and  book-cases  running  from  end  to  end  and  old 
sporting  prints  above  them. 

Before  the  great  fireplace  the  tea  was  waiting  and  there 
also  was  Nita  Raseley,  very  charming  and  fresh  and  pink  in 
the  face  and  golden  in  the  hair.     It  was  strange  that  Nita 


192  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

Raseley  should  have  been,  their  first  guest  since  their  mar* 
riage,  because  Rachel,  most  certainly,  did  not  like  her ;  but, 
after  that  meeting  at  the  Massiters'  the  girl  had  flung  a  pas- 
sionate and  incoherent  correspondence  upon  Rachel  and  had 
ended  by  practically  inviting  herself. 

Roddy  liked  her ;  Rachel  knew  that  —  so  perhaps  after  all 
it  had  been  a  good  thing  to  have  her  there.  Rachel's  dislike 
of  her  was  founded  on  a  complete  distrust.  "  She's  all  wrong 
and  insincere  and  beastly.  I'll  never  have  her  here 
again.  .  .  ."  And  yet,  really,  Miss  Raseley  had  behaved 
herself,  had  been  most  quiet  and  decorous  and  most  affec- 
tionate. 

The  electric  light  was  delicately  shaded,  the  curtains  were 
drawn,  outside  was  the  storm,  here  cosiness  and  shining  com- 
fort. 

"  Oh  I  darling  Rachel  —  I  am  so  glad  you've  come  —  I  do 
60  want  tea " 

"Where's  Roddy?" 

"  Just  come  in  —  He'll  be  here  in  a  minute ^" 


Rachel  came  over  to  the  fire  and  was  busy  over  the  tea- 
table. 

"  Well,  Nita,  what  have  you  been  at  all  the  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Oh  I  that  silly  old  book.  Rachel,  how  could  you  tell 
me " 

"What  book?" 

"  Oh !  you  know  —  you  lent  it  me.  Something  like  drink- 
ing—  you  know.  By  that  man  Westcott  —  such  a  silly 
name." 

''  The  Vines!  —  Didn't  you  like  it?  " 

"  Like  it !  My  dear  Rachel,  why,  they  go  on  for  pages 
about  each  other's  feelings  and  nothing  happens  and  I'm  sure 
it's  most  unwholesome.  They're  all  so  unhappy  and  always 
hating  one  another.  I  like  books  to  be  cheerful  and  about 
people  one  knows  —  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  ISTita  dear,  it's  a  good  thing  we  don't  all  like  the 
eame  things,  isn't  it?     Sugar?" 


A  LITTLE  HOUSE  193 

''Yes,  dear,  you  know  —  lots  —  Darling,  Have  you  got  a 
beadache?     You  do  look  rotten  —  you  do  really." 

Rachel  knew  that  she  must  keep  an  especial  guard  to-day : 
she  was  irritable,  out  of  sorts.  She  would  have  liked  im- 
mensely to  send  Nita  to  have  her  tea  in  the  nursery,  were 
there  one. 

"  No,  I'm  all  right  But  I  wanted  to  get  out  and  this 
storm  stopped  ma" 

"  You  do  look  dicky !  Oh !  what  do  you  think !  Roddy's 
taking  us  over  to  Hawes  to-morrow  to  lunch  if  the  weather's 
anything  like  decent.  He's  just  fixed  it  up  —  sent  a 
wire ^" 

"  To-morrow  ?  But  I  can't.  ...  He  knows.  I've  got 
Hiss  Crale  coming  here " 


"  Only  old  Miss  Crale  ?     Put  her  off " 

"  I  can't  possibly  —  I've  put  her  off  once  before.  She 
Wants  to  talk  about  her  Soldiers'  Institute  place — "  Then 
Rachel  added  more  slowly,  "  But  Roddy  knew " 

"  Oh !  he  said  you'd  got  some  silly  old  engagement,  but  he 
Tcnew  you'd  put  it  off !  " 

"  He  knows  I  can't.     He  was  talking  about  it  this  morning. 

He  knew  how "     Then  she  stopped.     She  was  not  going 

to  show  !Nita  Raseley  that  she  minded  anything. 

But  Roddy  had  always  said  that  they  would  go  over  to- 
gether to  Hawes  —  one  of  the  loveliest  old  places  in  the  world 
—  He  had  always  promised.  ,  .  . 

She  knew  perfectly  well  what  had  occurred.  Nita  had 
caught  Roddy  and  clung  on  to  him  and  persuaded  him  — 
Roddy  was  such  a  boy  —  But  she  was  hurt  and  she  despised 
herself  for  it. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  That's  all  right.  You  two 
must  just  go  over  together  —  that's  all!  I'll  go  another 
time " 

"  Well,  you  see,  Roddy  did  send  a  wire  and  the  Rocking- 
tons  would  hate  being  put  off  at  the  last  moment  .  .  .  Oh  I 
You   beastly   dog!     He's   been   licking   my   shoe,    RacheL 


194  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

Really  he  oughtn't  to,  ought  he  ?  So  funny  of  you,  Rachel, 
when  he's  siich  a  mongrel  and  Roddy's  got  such  lovely 
darlings  —  Of  course  Jacob's  a  dear,  but  he  is  rather  absurd 
to  look  at " 

Jacob  glanced  at  her,  shook  his  ears  and  then,  hearing  a 
step  that  he  knew,  retired,  instantly,  under  a  sofa  in  a  far 
comer  of  the  room. 

Roddy  came  in  and  stood  for  a  moment  laughing  across  at 
them.  He  was  in  an  old  tweed  suit  with  a  soft  collar  and  his 
face  was  brick-red;  looking  at  him  as  he  stood  there,  the 
absolute  type  of  health  and  strength  and  cleanly  vigour, 
Rachel  wondered  why  she  felt  irritable.  She  certainly  was 
out  of  sorts. 

"  Hullo,  you  two,"  Roddy  said,  "  you  do  look  cosy ! 
Talkin'  secrets,  or  will  you  put  up  with  a  man  ?  " 

"  Oh !  Roddy/*  said  Nita  Raseley,  "  why,  of  course. 
Rachel's  only  just  come  down,  hasn't  been  any  time  for  se- 
crets.    Come  and  get  warm." 

Room  was  made  for  him.  Rachel  smiled  at  him  as  she 
gave  him  his  tea.  "  Well,  Roddy,  what  have  you  been  doing  ? 
I've  been  trying  to  write  letters  and  Nita's  been  abusing  a 
novel  I  lent  her.     I  hope  you've  been  better  employed " 

"  I've  been  botherin'  around  with  Nugent  over  those  two 
horses  he  bought  last  week.  And  —  oh !  I  say,  Rachel,  you'll 
come  over  to  Hawes  to-morrow,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  can't  I've  got  Miss  Crale  coming  to 
luncheon ^" 

"  Oh,  I  say !     Put  her  off " 

"  Can't  —  I've  put  her  off  before  and  she  doesn't  deserve 
to  be  badly  treated " 

"  Oh !  dash  it !  But  I've  gone  and  wired.  The  Rocking- 
tons  won't  like  my  changin' " 


"  Well,  don't  change  —  you  and  Nita  go  over " 

"  No,  but  you  know  we'd  always  arranged  to  go  over  to- 
gether. You  see,  I  felt  sure  you'd  put  old  Miss  Crale  on  to 
another  day.     8he  won't  mind " 


A  LITTLE  HOUSE  195 

"  I^o,  Roddy,  thank  jou.  That's  not  fair  on  her.  It  can't 
be  helped.     You  go  over  with  Nita." 

Then  there  occurred  between  them  one  of  those  little  situa- 
tions that  were  now  so  frequent.  Rachel  was  hurt,  but  was 
determined  to  show  nothing ;  Roddy  knew  that  she  was  hurt, 
but  was  quite  unable  to  improve  relations,  partly  because  he 
had  no  words,  partly  because  "  a  feller  looks  such  a  fool  tryin' 
to  explain,"  partly  because  there  was  in  him  a  quality  of  sul- 
len obstinacy  that  was  mingled,  most  strangely,  with  his  kind- 
ness and  sentiment. 

He  was  absolutely  ready  to  fling  Nita  and  the  Rockingtons 
into  limbo,  but  he  was  quite  unable  to  set  about  such  a  business. 

Moreover  now  there  was  Nita  Raseley  —  It  was  at  this  mo- 
ment that  Jacob,  having  fought  in  the  dark  recesses  of  the 
sofa  between  his  dislike  of  Roddy  and  his  love  of  tea,  de- 
clared for  his  stomach  and  walked  slowly,  and  with  the  dig- 
nity required  by  the  presence  of  an  enemy,  across  the  room. 

"  Hullo !  there's  the  mongrel  — "  Roddy  endeavoured  to 
oover  earlier  awkwardness  by  easy  laughter,  but  the  laughter 
was  not  easy  and  his  attempt  to  pat  Jacob  was  frustrated  by 
a  sidling  movement  on  the  dog's  part. 

Then  Nita  Raseley  laughed. 

Roddy  now  thought  that  women  were  damnable,  that  his 
wife  had  no  right  to  drag  a  mongrel  like  that  about  with 
her,  that  he'd  show  them  if  they  laughed  at  him,  and  that  if 
Rachel  couldn't  come  to-morrow,  why  then,  she  must  just 
lump  it  —  The  last  thought  of  all  was  that  Rachel  was  always 
finding  a  grievance  in  something. 

He  waited  a  little  while,  talked  in  a  stiff  and  unnatural 
fashion  and  then  went. 

"  This  weather  is  very  trying,  dear,  isn't  it  ? "  said  Nita. 
"  If  I  were  you  I  really  would  go  and  lie  down.  You  do  look 
so  seedy !  " 

"  I  think  I  will,"  said  Rachel. 

As  she  went  slowly  upstairs  to  her  room  she  knew  that  she 
would  answer  Francis  Breton's  letter. 


CHAPTER  III 

FIRST  SEQUEL  TO  DEFIANCE 

"He  began  to  love  her  so  soon  as  he  perceived  that  she  was  passing 
out  of  his  control." 

Jane  Austen. 


N 


EXT  morning  Eacliel  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Fran- 
cis Breton: 


"  Dear  Me.  Beeton, 

It  was  good  of  you  to  write  to  me  and  I  must 
apologize  for  allowing  your  letter  to  remain  so  long  un- 
answered, but,  on  my  return  from  abroad,  tbere  were 
naturally  a  great  many  things  to  do  and  a  great  many 
people  to  see. 

My  husband  and  I  enjoyed  our  time  abroad  im- 
mensely :  it  was  my  first  visit  to  Greece  and  Italy  and  I 
loved  every  bit  of  it  —  Athens  is  to  me  more  wonderful 
than  now,  here  so  snugly  in  England,  seems  possible; 
Elorence  and  Rome  very  beautiful  of  course  but  spoilt, 
don't  you  think,  by  tourists  and  the  modem  Italian  who 
has  learnt  American  habits  — 

How  is  London  ?  I've  not  yet  had  a  good  look  at  it 
since  I  came  back,  but  we  shall  be  coming  up  soon,  I  ex- 
pect, and  have  taken  a  flat  in  EUiston  Square,  between 
Portland  Place  and  Byranston  Square. 

Your  letter  sounds  a  little  dismal ;  it  is  kind  of  you  to 

say  that  I  can  help  you,  but,  indeed,  if  writing  to  me 

helps  do  do  so.     It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  at  present  my 

husband  shares  the  family  point  of  view  and,  so  long  as 

that  is  so,  I  cannot  ask  you  to  come  and  see  me,  but  I  hope 

that  soon  he  will  see  the  whole  affair  more  sensibly. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

Rachel  Seddon." 
196 


FIRST  SEQUEL  TO  DEFIANCE  19Y 

She  was  not  proud  of  this  letter  when  she  read  it.  She 
whose  impulse  was  for  truth  seemed  to  be  flung,  at  every  turn, 
into  direct  dishonesty.  No,  she  would  not  seize  on  the  ex- 
cuse of  some  vague  tyrannical  fate. 

She  was  herself  her  own  agent  in  this  affair  and  she  bit- 
terly, from  her  heart,  condemned  herself  .  .  .  and  yet, 
strangely,  this  letter  to  Breton  seemed,  in  obedience  to  some 
inward  impulse,  her  most  honest  action  since  her  marriage. 

Yet  why  did  she  not  go  to  Roddy  now  and  say  to  him  that 
she  had  written  to  Breton  and  was  determined  to  act  as  his 
friend  ? 

Roddy  would  forbid  any  further  relationship;  she  knew 
that.     And  then?  .  .  . 

No,  she  could  not  see  beyond  — 

She  banished  the  letter  from  her  mind,  saw  the  two  of  them 
off  to  Hawes,  and  entertained  Miss  Crale  to  luncheon.  Miss 
Crale  was  a  broad  and  shapeless  old  maid  with  huge  boots,  a 
bass  voice  and  a  moustache.  She  was  behind  most  of  the 
charitable  affairs  in  the  county,  was  popular  everywhere,  and 
the  most  energetic  character  Rachel  had  ever  met  — 

Rachel  liked  her  and  she  liked  Rachel,  and  after  she  had 
departed,  breathless  and  red-faced,  on  some  further  visit  con- 
cerned with  some  further  chariky,  Rachel  felt  braced  and  in- 
vigorated and  happier  than  she  had  been  for  many  weeks. 

It  was  a  day  of  frosted  blue  and  the  sun  flashed  fire  on  to 
the  great  field  of  snow  that  stretched  from  sky  to  sky.  The 
Downs  lay  humped  against  the  blue  and  the  whole  world  was 
frozen  into  silence. 

The  only  sounds  were  the  soft  stir  the  snow,  falling  from 
branches  or  walls,  made  and  the  sharp  cries  of  some  children 
playing  in  a  field  near  at  hand. 

When  Miss  Crale  had  gone  Rachel  went  off  for  a  walk. 
Jacob  was  with  her.  She  struck  up  the  winding  path  on  to 
the  Downs.  The  snow  was  hard  and  yielded  a  pleasant 
friendly  crunch  beneath  her  feet.  Shadows  that  were  dark 
and  yet  were  filled  with  colour  lay  across  the  snow ;  beneath! 


1&8  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

her  a  white  valley  against  which  trees  and  buildings  seemed 
little  wooden  toys  and,  in  the  far  distance,  hills  rising,  cut, 
with  their  iridescent  glow,  the  blue  sky. 

'No  clouds;  no  movement;  no  sound;  and  soon  the  sun 
would  be  golden  and  then  hard  and  red,  and  then  across  all 
the  snow  pink  shadows  would  creep  and  the  evening  stars 
would  bum  — 

In  the  heart  of  the.  snow,  a  valley  between  the  shoulders  of 
the  Downs,  a  black  clump  of  trees  clustered;  she  could  see, 
now,  Seddon  Court  like  a  grey  box  at  her  feet,  very  tiny  and 
breathing  rest  and  peace. 

Some  of  her  trouble  slipped  from  her  under  this  clear  sky 
and  in  this  sharp  air ;  from  these  quiet  hills  she  saw  all  her 
introspection  as  an  evil  thing,  morbid,  cowardly;  from  here 
it  seemed  to  her  that  her  trouble  with  Roddy  had  been  be- 
cause he  did  not  know  what  introspection  meant  and  could  not 
understand  the  appeals  that  she  made  to  him. 

But  was  it  not  unfair  that  men  should  have  so  many  things 
that  could  take  the  place  of  love  ?  Eor  Roddy  there  were  a 
thousand  emotions  to  give  meaning  to  life:  for  Rachel  all 
experience  seemed  to  come  to  her  only  through  people  and 
her  relations  with  people. 

Soon  the  valley  and  the  little  toy  houses  were  behind  her 
and  she  had  only  the  white  rise  and  fall  of  the  hill  on  every 
side.  Dropped  into  a  hollow  was  a  little  dark  deserted  house 
with  bare  trees  about  it;  otherwise  there  was  no  dwelling- 
place  to  be  seen. 

This  absence  of  human  life  suddenly  drew  up  before  her, 
as  sharply  and  with  as  living  an  actuality  as  though  some 
mirage  had  cast  it  there  —  London  — 

Three  months  in  the  country  had  flung  the  London  that  she 
knew  into  a  vivid  perspective  that  was  quite  novel  to  her.  By 
the  London  that  she  knew  she  did  not  mean  the  London  of 
parties  and  theatre,  the  London  of  Nita  and  her  kind,  but 
rather  the  actual  London  of  the  streets  and  squares  and  foun- 


FIRST  SEQUEL  TO  DEFIANCE  199 

tain  and  parks  and  dusty  plane  trees  and  tinkling  organ- 
grinders. 

She  felt  now  quite  a  tkrill  of  excitement  to  think  that,  in 
another  week  or  two,  she  would  he  hack  in  it  all  and  would 
see  all  the  lamps  coming  out  and  the  jingling  cabs  and  the 
heavy  lumbering  omnibuses,  and  that  she  would  hear  again 
the  sharp  crying  of  the  newspaper  boys  and  the  ringing  of 
church  bells  and  the  thud  of  the  horses  down  the  Row  and  the 
hum  of  voices  above  the  orchestra  during  the  intervals  of  some 
play. 

She  thought  of  Portland  Place  and  the  park  and  the  Round 
Church  and  the  little  shops  and  Oxford  Circus  and  the  buses 
tumbling  down  Regent  Street  into  Piccadilly  and  then  tum- 
bling down  again  into  Pall  Mall.  From  Portland  Place  she 
seemed  to  look  down  over  the  whole  of  London  and  to  see  it 
like  a  jewel,  with  its  glow  dazzling  the  night  sky  — 

She  knew  now  that  although  she  hated  her  grandmother  she 
did  not  hate  the  Portland  Place  house  and  she  was  glad  that 
Roddy  had  taken  a  flat  near  there.  "No  other  part  of  London 
would  ever  be  quite  the  same  to  her  as  that  was:  it  would 
always  be  home  to  her  more  than  any  other  place  in  the 
world,  with  its  space  and  air  and  sense  of  life  crowding  around 
it 

And,  as  she  walked,  she  was  fired  with  the  desire  to  have 
some  real  active  share  in  the  London  life;  not  in  the  sham 
life  of  pleasure  and  entertainment,  but  to  be  working,  as  all 
kinds  of  men  must  be  working,  with  London  behind  them, 
influencing  them,  sometimes  depressing  them,  sometimes  ex- 
alting them,  always  moving  within  them. 

That  was  a  fine  ambition  to  work  towards  a  greater  London, 
a  greater,  finer,  truer  world,  and  whether  you  were  politician 
or  artist  or  journalist  or  merchant  or  novelist  or  clerk  or 
philanthropist,  still  by  your  working  honestly  you  would  de- 
serve your  place  in  that  company. 

If  she  could  have  some  share  in  such  things,  then  her  mia- 


200  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

erable  doubts  and  forebodings  would  vanish  in  a  vision  too 
bright  and  glorious  to  contain  them  — 

As  she  walked  her  face  glowed  and  her  body  moved  as 
though  it  could  continue  thus,  swinging  through  the  clear  air, 
for  all  time. 

She  determined  that  on  this  very  evening  she  would  tell 
Roddy  about  Breton.  Whatever  might  be  the  result  life  in 
the  future  should  be  clear  of  Beaminster  confusions.  She 
would  even  ask  Roddy  to  help  her  about  Breton,  to  influence 
perhaps,  her  grandmother  with  regard  to  him  — 

Then,  in  a  few  days,  Nita  Raseley  would  be  gone,  and, 
afterwards,  she  would  discipline  all  her  wit  and  energy  to- 
wards establishing  a  fine  relationship  with  Roddy. 

Something  had,  throughout  all  these  months,  been  wrong; 
she  would  discover  where  that  wrong  lay  —  She  would  curb 
her  own  impatience,  would  fling  herself  into  his  interests, 
would  learn  the  things  that  Roddy  wanted  from  her  and  give 
them  to  him  — 

Then,  as  the  sun  sank  lower  and  the  yellow  shadows  crept 
Tip  the  sky,  she  felt  desolate  and  lonely.  Vigour  left  her  — 
She  had  descended  now  into  the  valley  and  had  come  to  the 
deserted  house  with  the  stark  frowning  trees.  This  place,  she 
had  heard,  had  in  the  eighteenth  century  been  a  private  mad- 
house, and  now  behind  its  darkened  windows  she  could  have 
fancied  shapes  and  down  the  wind  the  echo  of  voices. 

She  fought  with  all  her  might  against  a  great  tide  of  loneli* 
ness  that  was  now  sweeping  up  about  her.  There  had  always 
been  so  many  people  around  her  and  yet  she  had  always  been 
lonely.  Even  May  and  Dr.  Christopher  had  not  helped  her 
there.  She  had  a  sense  now  of  all  the  people  in  all  the  world 
who  were  waiting  for  the  other  people  who  could  understand 
them;  they  were  always  missing  one  another,  so  near  some- 
times, sometimes  touching,  and  then,  after  all,  going  through 
life  alone. 

Those  were  the  people  with  feelings  and  emotions  —  and  as 
for  the  people  without  them,  of  what  use  was  life  to  them? 


FIRST  SEQUEL  TO  DEFIANCE  201 

Either  way,  except  for  tEe  fortunate  way,  Life  was  a  futile 
business. 

Then,  climbing  up  from  that  sinister  little  valley  and  seeing 
that  the  sky  had  turned  to  violet  and  that  the  evening  star 
was  there  burning  as  she  had  known  that  it  would,  she 
laughed  at  her  morbidity. 

She  shook  herself  free  from  it,  thought  once  more  of  the 
things  that  she  would  do  with  Eoddy,  thought  of  London  and 
the  fun  that  she  would  have  there,  thought  of  Christopher  and 
Uncle  John  and  even  Aunt  Adela ;  then,  as  she  turned  down 
the  little  crooked  path  towards  the  house,  she  thought  again 
of  her  cousin ;  she  would  work  without  ceasing  to  bring  him 
back  into  the  family. 

That,  at  any  rate,  was  work  upon  which  she  might  com- 
mence on  her  return  to  London,  and  as  she  clicked  the  little 
wicket-gate,  a  side-entrance  to  the  garden,  behind  her,  she  was 
almost  happy  again. 

The  dusk  was  deepening  into  darkness,  the  moon  had  not 
yet  risen  above  the  hill.  She  had  entered  the  garden  on  the 
further  side  of  the  house  and  passed  through  a  long  laurel 
path,  her  feet  silenced  by  the  snow. 

Jacob  had  stayed,  some  way  beWnd.  She  could  see  the 
white  lawn  and  beyond  it  the  lighted  house;  she  was  about 
to  step  out  of  the  dark  shadow  of  the  laurels  when  she  found, 
just  in  front  of  her,  almost  touching  her,  hidden  by  the  black 
depth  of  the  trees,  two  figures. 

She  was  upon  them  with  a  startled  cry.  A  man  had  his 
arms  about  a  woman ;  bending  back  a  little  he  had  pulled  her 
forward  against  him  and  was  kissing  her  so  fiercely  that  laef 
hands  were  buried  deep  in  liis  coat  to  steady  herself. 

Rachel  knew  them  instantly;  they  were  her  husband  and 
Nita  Raseley  — 

She  stepped  past  them  on  to  the  lawn  and  at  that  instant 
they  were  conscious  of  her  — 

Then  she  walked  swiftly  into  the  house. 


803  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

n 

She  went  up  to  her  bedroom.  !N"o  thouglit  came  to  her,  her 
mind  was  blank,  but  she  noticed  little  things,  put  some  of 
the  silver  things  on  her  dressing-table  in  order,  pulled  her 
blind  a  little  lower,  moved  to  the  fire  and  pushed  the  logs  into 
a  blaze.     She  sat  there  for  a  long,  long  time. 

When  the  dressing-bell  echoed  through  the  rooms  she  was 
still  sitting  there,  thinking  nothing  — 

Her  maid  came  to  her ;  she  told  her  the  dress  that  she  would 
wear  and  after  a  while  sat  staring  into  her  mirror  whilst  her 
hair  was  brushed. 

Lucy  said,  "  The  snow's  begun  again,  my  lady.  Coming 
down  fast " 

Then  some  absence  of  light  in  her  mistress's  eyes  fright- 
ened her  and  she  said  no  more. 

Someone  knocked  on  the  door:  a  note  for  her  ladyship. 
Kachel  read  it : 

"  It  was  all  a  horrible,  horrible  mistake.  Darling 
Rachel,  you  know  it  was  only  fun  —  just  nothing  at  alh 
Shall  I  come  and  explain  ?  If  you'd  rather  not  see  me  just 
now  say  so  and  I  shall  quite  understand.  I've  been  so 
upset  that  I  think  I  won't  come  down  to  dinner,  if  it  isn't 
too  much  bother  having  just  a  little  sent  up  to  me.  It  was 
all  sii£h  a  silly  mistake,  as  you'll  see  when  we've  explained. 

Your  loving 

ISTlTA." 

When  she  came  to  "  we  "  Rachel  coloured  a  little.  Then 
she  said,  "  Lucy,  bring  me  the  local  railway-guide.  In  my 
writing-room." 

Lucy  brought  it  to  her.     Then  she  wrote : 

"  Deab  Kita, 

No  explanations  necessary.  There  is  a  good  train 
up  to  town  from  Hawes  at  9.30  to-morrow  morning. 

Yours, 

Rachel  Seddokt." 


FIRST  SEQUEL  TO  DEFIANCE  203 

"  I  want  this  taken  to  Miss  Raseley,  Lucy  —  now.  She^s 
not  very  well,  so  ask  Haddon  to  see  that  dinner  is  sent  up  to 
her  room,  please." 

Then  she  finished  dressing  and  went  down  to  Eoddy. 

ni 

He  had  perhaps  expected  that  she  would  not  come  down, 
but  there  was  no  opportunity  given  them  for  speech  because 
the  butler  announcing  dinner  followed  her  into  the  library. 
They  went  in. 

He  sat  opposite  her,  looking  ashamed,  with  his  eyes  low- 
ered, and  the  red  coming  and  going  in  his  sunburned  cheeks. 

They  talked  for  the  sake  of  the  servants,  and  she  asked  him 
whether  Hawes  had  been  as  lovely  as  ever  and  whether  Lady 
Rockington's  nerves  were  better,  and  how  their  youngest  boy 
(delicate  from  his  birth)  was  now. 

Whilst  she  spoke  her  brain  was  turning,  turning  like  ai 
wheel;  could  she  only,  for  five  minutes,  think  clearly,  then 
might  much  after  disaster  be  avoided.  She  knew  that  in  the 
conversation  that  was  to  como  Roddy  would  follow  her  lead 
and  that  it  would  be  she  who  would  be  responsible  for  aU  con- 
sequences. 

She  knew  that  and  yet  she  could  not  force  her  brain  to  be 
clear  nor  foresee  what  the  end  of  it  all  was  to  be. 

The  dessert  and  the  wine  came  at  last  and  she  went  — 

"  I'll  be  in  the  library,  Roddy,"  she  said. 

He  gave  her  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  in  that  pause,  withi 
the  house  quite  silent  all  about  her  and  the  fire  crackling  and 
the  lights  softly  shining,  she  strove  to  discipline  her  mind. 

She  had  known  as  soon  as  she  had  seen  them  there  that  tho 
most  awful  element  in  it  was  that  this  had  in  no  way  altered 
the  earlier  case  —  it  merely  precipitated  a  crisis  and  de^ 
manded  a  definition.  Nothing  could  have  proved  to  her  that; 
she  had  never  loved  Roddy  so  much  as  her  own  feeling  at  this 
crisis  towards  him.     Therein  lay  her  own  sin. 

It  was  simply  now  of  the  future  that  she  must  think.    Tho 


204  THE  DUCHESS  OP  WEEXE 

awful  chasm  that  might  divide  them  after  this  night,  were 
tiot  their  words  most  carefully  ordered,  shook  her  with  fear; 
peril  to  herself,  for  she  could  stand  aside  and  see  herself  quite 
clearly :  and  she  knew  that  if  to-night  she  and  he  were  to  say 
things  that  they  could  neither  of  them  afterwards  forget,  then, 
for  herself,  and  from  her  deep  need  of  love  and  affection, 
there  was  temptation  awaiting  her  that  no  disguise  could 
cover. 

Then,  as  more  clearly  she  figured  the  scene  in  the  garden, 
patience  seemed  difl&cult  to  command. 

She  hated  Nita  Kaseley  —  that  was  no  matter  —  hut  she 
despised  Roddy,  and  were  he  once  to-night  to  see  that  con- 
tempt she  knew  that  his  after  remembrance  of  it  would  divide 
them  more  completely  than  anything  else  could  do. 

When  he  came  in  she  had  still  no  clearer  idea  of  what  she 
intended  to  say,  or  how  she  wished  things  to  go.  She  was 
sitting  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire  with  her  hands  shielding 
her  face,  and  he  sat  down  opposite  her  and  stared  at  her  and 
cleared  his  throat  and  wished  that  she  would  take  her  handa 
down  and  then  finally  plunged : 

"  Rachel  —  I  don't  know  —  I  can't  —  hang  it  all,  what  can 
I  say  ?  I've  been  a  beastly  cad  and  I'd  cut  my  right  hand  ofl 
to  have  prevented  it  happening " 

She  took  her  hand  down  and  turned  towards  him  — 

"  Let's  cut  all  the  recrimination  part,  Roddy,"  she  said. 
"  It  was  very  unfortunate  —  that  was  all.  It  was  rather 
beastly  of  you,  and  as  for  ISTita " 

Here  he  broke  in  — "  "No,  I  say,  you  mustn't  say  anythin' 
about  her.     She  wasn't  a  little  bit  to  blame  —  It  just " 

. "  Well,  we'll  leave  Nita.  She  isn't  of  any  importance,  any- 
way. The  point  is  that  things  have  been  wrong  for  months 
beljreen  us,  and  as  we  haven't  been  married  very  long  that's  a 
|j>ity.     This  has  just  brought  things  to  a  head,  that's  all '* 

"  ]Sro,"  said  Roddy  firmly.  "  No,  Rachel,  that  ain't  fair  to 
Nita.  I  know  it  isn't  nice,  but  I  must  put  that  out  fair  and 
f^uare  —  fair  and  s(juare  to  Nita. 


FIRST  SEQUEL  TO  DEFIANCE  205 

"  We'd  had  a  jolly  old  drive  to  Hawes  —  rippin'  day,  cold 
as  anjthin',  with  the  horse  just  spankin'  along,  and  then  the 
Kockingtons  were  jolly  and  the  lunch  was  jolly  and  back  we 
came.  We  looked  about  the  house  for  you  and  heard  you 
were  still  out  walkin',  so  we  just  strolled  about  the  garden  a 
bit  and  then  —  Well,  anyway,  ]!^ita  simply  had  nothin'  to  do 
"with  it.  It  was  so  rippin'  and  jolly  after  the  drive  and  all, 
that  I  just  kissed  her.  All  in  a  second  I  just  felt  I  had  to 
•  .  .  beastly  weak  of  me,"  he  finally  added  in  a  contempla- 
tive tone. 

"  Well,  that  disposes  of  l^ita,"  said  Eachel.  "  Don't  let's 
mention  her  again.  Meanwhile  what  sort  of  life  am  I  going 
to  have  if  '  things '  are  going  to  sweep  over  you  like  this 
continually?  Besides,  it's  rather  early  days,  isn't  it?  We 
haven't  been  married  half  a  year  yet." 

"  'No"  said  Eoddy  slowly,  " no,  we  haven't  and  it's  simply 
beastly.  I'm  a  perfect  swine.  When  I  married  you  the  one 
thing  I  meant  to  do  was  to  be  just  as  kind  to  you  as  I  jolly 
well  could  be,  and  give  you  a  perfectly  rippin'  time,  and  here 
I  am  hurtin'  you  like  anything " 

She  moved  impatiently.  "  ^Never  mind  that,  Roddy. 
You  have  been  very  kind  and  I'm  sure  you'd  have  given  any- 
thing for  me  not  to  have  come  into  the  garden  just  when  I 
did,  so  as  to  have  avoided  hurting  me.  But  what  I  do  know 
is  that  you're  not  straight  with  me.  You  know  I  told  you  be- 
fore we  were  married  that  the  one  thing  that  mattered  was 
Truth  —  truth  to  oneself  and  truth  to  everyone  else  —  Well, 
we  haven't  been  straight  with  one  another  for  a  single  instant. 
You've  done  any  number  of  things  that  would  be  wrong  to 
you  if  I  knew  about  them,  but  wouldn't  be  in  the  least  wrong 
if  I  didn't." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Roddy,  "  no  feller  tells  his  wife  every- 
thing—  that  would  be  absurd.  I  think  things  are  worse  if 
people  know  about  'em  whom  it  hurts  to  know  —  much 
worse." 

She  was  suddenly  confronted  now  with  a  Roddy  whoso 


206  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

assurance  and  confidence  in  his  own  personality  startled  her. 
Because  he  had  never  been  gifted  with  words  and  liked  to  be 
in  the  company  of  dogs  and  horses  she  had  fancied  that  he 
had  no  ideas  about  anything. 

Eachel  was  a  great  deal  younger  than  she  knew  and  a  great 
deal  more  contemptuous  of  the  other  half  world  than  her 
experience  of  it  justified.  Strangely  enough  this  confidence 
on  Roddy's  part  angered  her  more  than  anything  else  could 
have  done. 

"  The  fact  is  that  since  our  marriage  we've  never  got  to 
know  each  other  in  the  least.  We  talk  and  go  to  places 
together  and  you  give  me  things  and  I  give  you  things  —  and 
that's  all.  I  don't  know  you  and  now,  after  to-day,  I  can't 
trust  you " 

He  coloured  a  little  at  that,  but  said  nothing. 

She  went  on,  rather  fast  and  her  breath  coming  between 
her  words :  "  But  I'm  not  going  to  be  so  silly  as  to  make  a 
ecene  because  I  saw  you  kissing  Nita  Raseley.  She's  simply 
not  worth  thinking  about, —  but  you  ought  to  be  straighter 
to  me  all  the  way  round.  If  you've  wanted  to  be  kind  to  me 
as  you  say,  then  you  might  have  taken  me  more  into  your 
life " 

"  Well,"  said  Roddy  slowly,  "  if  you'd  managed  to  love  me 
a  bit,  Rachel,  things  might  be  different." 

This  answer  was  so  utterly  unexpected  that  it  took  her  like 
a  blow.  That  Roddy  should  attack  her  when  he  had,  only  a 
few  hours  before,  been  discovered  so  abominably  I 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Roddy  ? "  she  stammered  angrily. 
"Love  you?     But " 

"  Yes,"  he  persisted  doggedly,  "  I  know  when  you  accepted 
me  you  said  you  didn't  and  I  know  that  I  hadn't  any  right  to 
expect  it,  but  I  believe  if  you  hadn't  thought  me  such  a  silly 
ass  and  hadn't  looked  all  the  time  as  though  you  were  just 
indulgin'  my  silly  fancies  until  somethin'  more  sensible  had 
come  along,  things  might  have  been  different.  I'm  the  sort 
of  feller,"  Roddy  said,  choosing  his  words  carefully,  "  that 


FIRST  SEQUEL  TO  DEFIANCE  20T; 

you  could  have  made  anythin'  out  of,  KacheL  I'm  weak  a> 
some  ways  —  most  men  are  —  and  when  a  thing  comes 
dancin'  along  lookin'  ever  so  temptin',  why,  then  I  generally 
have  to  go  after  it.  But  you  could  have  kept  me,  Rachel, 
more  than  anyone  IVe  ever  known " 

She  was  not  touched  nor  moved,  only  angered  that  he,  so 
obviously  in  the  wrong,  should  attempt  justification. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  hotly.  "  And  I  suppose  in  another  mo- 
ment you'll  be  telling  me  that  it's  silly  of  me  to  be  angry  at 
what  I  saw  this  afternoon  ?  " 

He  thought  it  out  a  moment,  then  answered :  "  N^o,  it  was 
perfectly  natural  of  course  —  only  I  don't  think  you  ought  to 
mind  much.  If  you  really  cared,  you  wouldn't.  It  don't 
matter  really  so  much  what  I  do  if  I  still  like  you  best. 
Moments  don't  count  —  it's  what  goes  on  all  the  time  that 
matters.  Why,  I  might  kiss  a  hundred  women  and  still  you'd 
be  the  only  woman  who  mattered  to  me.  I've  never  cared 
for  one  so  long  before,"  he  added  simply. 

Then  as  she  said  nothing  he  went  on :  "  I've  never  been 
sort  of  educated  —  never  cared  enough  for  anyone  to  give 
things  up.  I  would  have  given  things  up  for  you  if  you'd 
wanted  me  to,  but  you  didn't  really ^" 

"  Aren't  we  a  little  off  the  point,  Roddy  ?  "  she  flung  back. 
"  The  point  is  how  are  we  going  to  get  along  all  the  years  and 
years  we've  got  in  front  of  us  ?     What  are  we  going  to  do  ?  '* 

"  Everybody's  just  the  same,"  said  Roddy  quietly.  "  It 
takes  a  lot  of  years  before  married  people  settle  down.  We 
can't  expect  to  be  any  different " 

But  although  he  spoke  so  quietly  he  watched  her,  hoping 
for  some  yielding  on  her  part ;  in  an  instant,  had  she  come  to 
him,  she  would  have  seen  a  Roddy  whom  she  had  never  seen 
before  and  from  that  moment  onwards  would  have  had  a 
power  over  him  that  nothing  could  have  shaken. 

So  delicately  hung  the  balance  between  them.  But  she  was 
filled  with  a  sense  of  her  own  wrongs,  her  loneliness,  the  in- 
justice of  it  all.     At  that  moment  all  affection  for  Roddy  had 


208  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

left  her,  she  would  only  have  been  glad  if  she  had  known 
that  she  was  never  to  see  him  again.  His  slow  voice,  his  way 
of  thinking  out  his  sentences,  his  thick  clumsy  hands  and  hia 
red  face,  everything  came  to  her  now  as  a  continuation  of  the 
chains  that  she  had  worn  all  her  days. 

She  got  up  and  confronted  him  — 

"  Tes,"  she  said  fiercely,  "  that's  exactly  it.  Life  is  to  be 
like  everyone  else.  We're  to  say  the  things,  do  the  things 
that  our  neighbours  say  and  do.  Because  your  friends  at 
Brooks's  kiss  their  wives'  friends,  therefore  you  are  to  do  so. 
Because  the  men  you  know  never  say  what  they  mean  and 
lie  about  everything  they  do,  therefore  you  do  the  same. 
Oh !  I  know !  Haven't  I  heard  it  all  my  life  ?  Haven't  my 
precious  family  lived  on  lies  ?  You've  caught  it  all  from  my 
delightful  grandmother !     I  congratulate  you !  " 

"  What  if  I  have  ?  "  he  said.  "  She's  a  friend  of  mine, 
Rachel.  She's  been  dashed  good  to  me  —  You're  not  to  say  a 
word  against  her." 

"  I  hate  her,"  Eachel  cried  passionately.  "  All  my  life 
she's  been  over  me  —  for  years  she's  been  my  enemy.  If  she 
stands  for  everything  that  you  believe,  then  it  isn't  any  won- 
der that  we  have  nothing  in  common,  that  you  should  be  proud 
of  this  afternoon,  that  —  that " 

She  was  biting  her  lips  to  keep  back  the  tears.  Over  his 
face  had  crept  a  sulky  obstinate  look  that  might  have  told  her, 
had  she  seen  it,  that  she  was  driving  him  very  far. 

"  She's  fine,"  he  said.  "  She's  made  England  what  it  is. 
You're  all  for  ideas,  Rachel,  and  for  Truth  and  lots  of  things, 
but  you're  difficult  to  live  with." 

"  Very  well,  Roddy.  Thank  you.  Now  we  know  how  we 
stand.  I  at  least  owe  Nita  a  debt  for  having  cleared  up  the 
situation.  If  you  find  it  difficult  with  me  I  can  at  least  re- 
turn the  compliment  —  and  I  have  at  any  rate  this  added 
advantage,  that  I  speak  the  truth." 

As  he  looked  at  her  across  the  room  he  saw  in  her  that  same 
figure  that  he'd  seen  once  just  before  proposing  to  her— « 


FIRST  SEQUEE  TO  DEFIAITCE  209 

someone  foreign,  unknown  —  He  felt  as  though  he  were 
quarrelling  with  a  stranger.  .  .  . 

She  turned  and  went. 

Eor  a  long  while  he  stood  gazing  into  the  fire,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  How  had  it  all  happened  ?  Why  had  they  let 
it  come  to  that  kind  of  quarrel  when  they  might  so  easily 
have  prevented  it  ? 

And  she,  crying  bitterly  in  her  room,  asked  herself  the 
same  question. 


CHAPTER  IV 

RACHEL  — AND  CHRISTOPHER  AND  RODDY 


CHRISTOPHER  had  snatched  Ms  first  holiday  for  two 
years  and  was  abroad  during  the  January  of  1899  when 
the  Seddons  were  in  town. 

February,  March  and  April  they  spent  at  Seddon  Court, 
and  it  was  not  therefore  until  early  in  May  that  Christophei 
saw  Rachel. 

She  had  dreaded  with  an  almost  fantastic  alarm  this  meet 
ing.  No  other  human  being  knew  her  so  honestly  and  accu- 
rately as  did  Christopher,  and  the  change  in  her  that  he  would 
at  once  discern  would,  when  she  caught  the  reflection  of  it  in 
his  eyes,  mark  definitely  the  sinister  country  into  which  these 
last  months  had  carried  her. 

It  had  seemed  as  though  some  malign  spirit  had  been 
determined  to  make  the  most  of  that  quarrel  that  Nita  Rase- 
ley  had  provoked. 

Both  Roddy  and  Rachel  hated  scenes  —  upon  that,  at  least, 
they  were  agreed  —  and  from  their  determination  never  to 
have  another  arose  a  deliberate  avoidance  of  any  plain  speak- 
ing. Rachel,  longing  for  honesty,  found  herself  caught  in  a 
thousand  deceits  —  Roddy,  avoiding  any  kind  of  analysis, 
found  that  everything  that  he  provided  in  conversation  seemed 
to  lead  to  danger. 

He  was  now  always  ill  at  ease  in  Rachel's  company;  he 
bad  stood  on  that  fatal  evening,  more  strongly  for  the  Bea- 
minster  interest  than  he  had  intended,  but  from  his  very 
determination  to  maintain  his  new  independence,  he  pro- 
duced the  Duchess  for  Rachel's  benefit  at  every  turn  of  the 
road. 

Roddy  knew  that  the  Duchess  feared  that  Rachel  would 

210 


EACHEU  — AND  CHRISTOPHER  211' 

lead  him  from  her  side  and  that  she  received  with  rejoicing- 
every  sign  on  his  part  of  irritation  against  Rachel.  She  had 
vranted  him  to  marry  her  granddaughter  because  that  bound 
him  more  closely  to  her,  but  she  had  not,  perhaps,  been  pre- 
pared for  the  probable  effect  of  Rachel's  character  upon 
him. 

The  Duchess  therefore  made,  throughout  these  months,  a 
third  member  of  their  company.  Roddy,  finding  Rachel's 
society  a  growing  embarrassment,  spent  more  and  more  of 
his  time  with  his  animals  and  his  tenants  and  labourers. 
But  all  this  time  he  was  conscious,  in  a  dumb  way,  of  unhap- 
piness  and  a  puzzled  dismay,  so  that  his  very  affection  for 
Rachel  produced  in  him  a  growing  irritation  that  it  should 
be  so  needlessly  thwarted.  Things  were  all  wrong  and  his 
resentment  of  his  own  failure  to  right  them  reacted,  without 
his  will,  upon  the  very  person,  whom  he  wished  to  propiti- 
ate. 

For  Rachel  these  months  were  baffling  in  their  hideous  dis- 
comfort. Her  affection  for  Roddy  was  there,  but  it  was 
swallowed  by  her  desperate  efforts  to  analyse  a  situation  that 
was,  in  definite  outline,  no  situation  at  all. 

As  Roddy  withdrew,  her  loneliness  wrapped  her  round,  and 
in  every  day  that  added  to  her  distance  from  Roddy  she  saw 
the  active  and  malignant  agency  of  her  grandmother.  She 
was  intelligent  enough  to  be  aware  that  in  this  constant 
vision  of  the  Duchess  she  was  outstepping  the  probabilities; 
but  her  early  years  and  the  precipitation  with  which  she  had 
been  shot  out  of  them  into  an  atmosphere  that  unexpectedly 
resembled  their  own  earlier  surroundings  seemed  to  point  to 
some  diabolical  agency. 

"  Oh !  when  I  get  free  of  this,"  had  been  her  earlier  cry, 
and  now  the  foreboding  that  she  was  never  to  be  free  of  it 
until  she  died  terrified  her  with  its  possibility.  Imagine  her 
brought  up  in  a  stuffy  house  with  windows  tightly  closed, 
in  full  vision  of  a  high  road,  imagine  her  promised  the  free- 
dom of  the  road  at  a  future  time;  imagine  her  liberated,  at 


ai2  THE  DUCHESS  OP  WEEXE 

last,  rushing  into  the  new  life  and  finding  that,  after  all,  the 
walls  of  the  house  were  still  about  her,  and  about  her  now  for 
ever. 

Her  one  reserve  during  the  early  months  of  the  year  at 
Seddon  had  been  her  letters  to  Francis  Breton.  His  letters 
to  her  had  been  a  series  of  self -revelation ;  he  had  restrained 
himself  in  so  far  as  appealing  to  her  simply  on  the  score  of 
their  relationship  and  his  enmity  to  the  head  of  the  house. 
She  had  replied  revealing  her  sympathy,  hinting  at  rebellion 
on  her  own  side  and  feeling,  after  the  writing  of  every  letter, 
a  hatred  of  her  own  deceit,  a  curiously  heightened  sense  of 
affection  for  Roddy,  above  all  a  conviction  that  impulses  were, 
of  their  own  agency,  working  to  some  climax  that  she  could 
not,  or  would  not,  control. 

The  foreign  blood  in  her,  the  English  blood  in  him,  baffled 
their  advances  toward  one  another.  Everything  that  Rachel 
did  now  seemed  to  Roddy  so  close  to  melodrama  that  it 
"was  best  to  use  silence  for  his  weapon.  All  Roddy's  actions 
were  to  Rachel  further  illustrations  of  Beaminster  muddle 
and  second-rate  personality. 

Had  Roddy  called  out  of  Rachel  the  great  depth  of  passion 
and  reality  that  she  inherited  from  her  mother  her  own  love 
of  him  would  have  solved  everything  —  but  that  he  could  not 
€all  from  her,  nor  ever  would. 

Eor  Rachel,  she  saw  in  him  now  a  possibility  of  perpetual 
infidelity,  and  at  every  suspicion  of  it  her  disgust  both  at 
herself  and  him  grew  because  that  possibility  did  not  move 
her  more. 

They  came  up  to  London  at  the  beginning  of  May  and  hid, 
very  successfully  from  the  world,  the  widening  breach. 

To  Rachel,  it  was  sheer  terror  to  discover  the  thrill  that  the 
adjacence  of  EUiston  Square  to  Saxton  Square  gave  her. 
In  this  one  self-revelation  there  was  enough  to  present  her 
with  night  after  night  of  sleepless  misery.  She  visited  the 
Duchess  and  found  that  her  presence  was  continually  de- 
manded.    Every  visit  was  a  battle. 


EACHEL  — AND  CHKISTOPHER  213 

"  Show  me  how  you  are  treating  him,  whether  he  cares  for 
you.     Have  you  found  him  out  ?     Tell  me  everything '' 

"  I  will  tell  you  nothing.  I  will  come  here  day  after  day 
and  you  shall  gather  nothing  from  me.     I  have  escaped  you." 

"  Indeed  you  have  not  escaped  me.  My  power  over  you  is 
only  now  beginning " 

'No  word  between  them  but  the  most  civil.  There  was  no 
trace  in  the  old  woman  now  of  her  earlier  irony  —  no  sign  in 
Rachel  of  irritation  or  rebellion. 

But  the  girl  knew  that  war  was  declared,  that  her  only 
ally  was  one  in  whose  alliance  lay,  for  her,  the  very  heart  of 
danger. 

All  these  things  she  might  hide  from  the  world  —  from 
Christopher  she  knew  that  she  could  hide  nothing. 

n 

It  was  on  an  early  afternoon  in  May  that  Christopher  had 
tea  with  Rachel.  He  had  waited  for  his  visit  with  very  real 
anxiety;  the  letters  that  he  had  had  from  her  had  been  un- 
satisfactory, not  because  they  were  actively  expressive  of 
unhappiness,  but  because  there  was  an  effort  in  every  word 
of  them  —  Rachel  had  never  found  it  difficult  to  write  to  him 
before. 

He  was  also  uneasy  because  he  had  been  against  this  mar- 
riage from  the  beginning.  He  did,  as  he  said  to  the  Duchess, 
know  Rachel  better  than  anyone  else  knew  her ;  he  knew  her 
from  his  love  for  her,  and  also  from  that  scientific  study  that 
he  applied  in  his  profession.  And  he  had  found,  too,  in  her, 
as  he  had  found  in  Breton,  some  strain  of  fierce  helplessness, 
as  of  an  animal  caught  in  a  trap,  that  especially  moved  his 
interest  and  affection  — 

Was  Rachel's  marriage  a  disaster  ?  If  so  she  had  certainlyj 
managed  to  conceal  it,  for  even  the  Duchess  did  not  know  — > 
of  that  he  was  sure. 

If  Rachel  were  indeed  unhappy  would  she  come  to  him  as 
she  used  to  come  to  him  2 


214  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

What  change  had  marriage  wrought  in  her? 

It  was  one  of  those  May  days  when  the  weather  is  hot 
before  London  is  ready.  It  was  a  day  of  tension ;  buildings, 
streets  quivered  beneath  a  sun  in  whose  gaze  there  was  no 
kindliness  nor  comfort.  Christopher  drove  from  Eaton 
Square,  where,  for  some  hours  he  had  been  engaged  in  pre- 
venting an  old  man  from  dying,  when  both  the  old  man  him- 
self and  all  his  friends  and  relations  were  convinced  that  death 
was  the  best  thing  for  him  — 

Sloane  Street  ran  like  white  steel  before  his  eyes,  not  dimly 
veiled  as  he  had  so  often  seen  it ;  Park  Lane  oifered  houses 
that  stared  with  haughty  faces  upon  a  world  that  would,  they 
knew,  do  anything  for  money  — 

Elliston  Square  itself  was  white  and  sterile ;  the  town  was, 
on  this  afternoon,  irritated,  sinister  .  .  .  feet  ached  upon 
its  pavements  and  hearts  were  suddenly  clutched  with  fore- 
boding. 

As  he  ascended  in  the  lift  to  her  flat  he  knew  that,  did  he 
find  that  this  marriage  was,  truly,  a  misadventure  for  Rachel, 
then,  until  his  death,  he  would  reproach  himself  for  some  weak 
inaction,  some  hesitation  when  first  he  had  heard  that  it  was 
to  be. 

He  had  protested,  but  now  he  felt  that  he  should  have  done 
more. 

Soon  he  had  his  answer  to  all  his  questions. 

He  saw  at  once  that  Rachel  was  no  longer  the  impulsive, 
nervous  girl  whom  he  had  always  known.  She  was  a  girl  no 
longer. 

Her  eyes  greeted  him  now  steadily,  she  seemed  taller  and 
her  body  was  in  perfect  control  —  very  tall  and  slim  and  dark, 
her  cheeks  pale  but  shadowed  a  little  with  the  shadow  deepen- 
ing beneath  her  eyes.  Her  mouth,  that  had  always  been  too 
llarge,  had  had  before  a  delightful  quality  of  uncertainty,  so 
that  smiles  and  frowns  and  alarm,  distress  and  happiness  all 
hovered  near.     It  was  now  grave  and  composed. 

Her  limbs  had  always  moved  unsteadily  and  vrith  the 


EACHEL  — AND  CHKISTOPHER  215 

awkward  lack  of  control  of  a  child,  now  there  was  no  kind  of 
impulse,  every  movement  was  considered,  and  that  was  the 
first  thing  that  Christopher  saw,  that  nothing  that  Rachel 
now  did  or  said  was  spontaneous. 

There  was  less  in  her  now  to  remind  him  of  her  foreign 
blood. 

The  flat  was  comfortable,  but  more  commonplace  than  it 
would  have  been  had  it  been  Rachel's  only. 

He  kissed  her,  as  he  had  always  done,  and  he  fancied  that 
ehe  clung  for  a  moment  to  him,  as  her  hands  went  up  to  hit 
coat. 

He  settled  his  big  loose  body  and  looked  across  at  her. 

Christopher  was  no  subtle  analyser  of  other  people's  emo- 
tions. His  own  feelings  were  never  complicated  and  he  ex- 
pected life  to  run  on  plain  and  simple  lines  of  likes  and 
dislikes,  sorrow,  anger,  love  and  hatred.  If  someone  of  whom 
he  was  fond  made  a  direct  appeal  to  him  his  simple  remedies 
were  often  wonderfully  useful  —  he  was  no  fool  and  he  had 
been  brought,  during  a  great  number  of  years,  into  the  most 
direct  relations  with  men  and  women,  but,  if  that  direct 
appeal  was  not  made,  then  he  was  frightened  and  baffled. 

He  was  frightened  of  Rachel  now ;  he  knew  instantly  that 
instead  of  appealing  she  would  defend  herself  from  him.  .  .  , 
Some  mysterious  conviction  seemed  to  forebode  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  help  her.  He  was,  essentially,  of  those  who, 
believing  in  goodness  and  virtue  and  the  glorious  Millen- 
nium, are  contented,  quite  simply,  with  that  belief  and  might, 
if  they  stated  those  simplicities,  irritate  the  scoffers.  But 
he  was  saved  because  he  made  statements  on  the  rarest  occa- 
sions and  lived  his  life  instead. 

Here,  however,  was  a  crisis  in  his  relations  with  Rachel  that 
no  platitudes  could  satisfy.  Did  he  not  touch  her  now  he 
might  never  touch  her  again. 

In  a  situation  that  was  beyond  him  he  was  always  hope- 
lessly self-conscious.  His  love  for  Rachel  was  so  tremendous 
a  thing  in  him  that  a  statement  of  it  should  surely  have  beea 


216  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  But  he  saw  in  her  eyes  that 
to  challenge  her  with  — "  My  dear,  you  know  how  I  love  you. 
Tell  me  what's  the  matter,"  would  frighten  her  to  absolute 
silence.  "  I'm  going  to  tell  you  nothing,"  she  seemed  to  say 
to  him,  "  unless  you  move  me  in  spite  of  myself.  But,  if  I 
don't  tell  you  now  I  shall  never  tell  you." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her,  "  how  are  you 
after  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  I'm  all  right,"  she  answered,  smiling  hack  at  him.  "  It 
is  good  to  see  you  again.     Tell  me  all  about  your  holiday." 

"  Tell  me  about  yours  first." 

"  Oh !  There  isn't  very  much  to  tell.  I  enjoyed  it  all 
enormously,  of  course." 

"  What  did  you  enjoy  most  ?  " 

"  Oh !  some  of  the  smaller  towns  —  Bapallo,  for  instance. 
—  Oh !  yes,  and  Bologna  was  fascinating." 

"  Not  Rome  and  Florence  ?  " 

"  In  a  way.  But  there  were  too  many  tourists.  Rome 
one's  got  to  stay  in,  I'm  sure.  That  first  view  was  disappoint- 
ing." 

"  And  how  did  Roddy  —  if  I  may  call  him  Roddy  —  enjoy 
it?" 

"  Immensely,  I  think.  He  liked  the  country  better  than 
the  towns  though." 

"  You  saw  lots  of  pictures  ?  " 

"  Heaps.  Roddy  enjoyed  them  enormously.  I'd  no  idea 
he  knew  so  much  about  them.  Oh!  it  was  all  lovely,  and 
such  colours,  such  light  —  London  seems  like  a  cellar,  even  in 
June." 

There  followed  then  a  pause  that  swelled  and  swelled  be- 
tween them  until  it  resembled  some  dreadful  monster,  hor- 
ribly stationed  there  to  separate  them. 

Christopher  looked  at  Rachel,  but  she  refused  to  meet  his 
eyes. 

"  I've  lost  her.  I  shall  never  see  her  again !  "  he  thought 
with  despair.     Two  years  ago  he  would  have  gone  to  her,  put 


RACHEL  — AND  CHRISTOPHER  217 

tig  arms  around  her,  kissed  her  and  drawn  from  her  at  once 
her  trouble. 

He  could  not  do  that  now. 

"  Your  turn,  Dr.  Chris  dear.  Tell  me  about  your  holi- 
days." 

"  Oh,  mine  don't  count.  I  went  to  Brittany  first,  then  up 
to  St.  Andrews  with  another  man  to  play  golf." 

"  You're  looking  splendidly  well  and  you're  thinner. 
What  was  Brittany  like  ?  " 

"  Delightful.     Have  you  ever  been  there  ?  " 

"  Never.  I  must  get  Roddy  to  take  me.  Just  suit  him, 
I  should  think." 

To  Christopher's  intense  relief  tea  was  brought.  He  came 
to  the  table  and  then,  for  an  instant,  he  did  catch  her  eyes, 
saw  tears  in  them,  and  behind  the  tears  some  appeal  to  him 
to  help  her.     Her  hand  was  shaking. 

"  How  silly  of  me  to  spill  your  tea.  I'm  so  sorry.  Let 
me  pour  it  back.  .  .  ." 

"  Rachel "   he   b^an,   but   a   servant   entered   with 

something  and  he  waited.  When  they  were  alone  again, 
standing  over  her  as  though  he  were  afraid  that  she  would 
escape  him,  he  plunged. 

"  Rachel  dear.  We're  talking  as  though  we'd  never  met 
before.  You've  never  been  shy  with  me  like  this.  If  mar- 
riage is  going  to  make  a  stranger  of  you,  I  shall  break  young 
Seddon's  neck " 

"  No,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  between  laughter  and 
tears.  "  Of  course.  Dr.  Chris.  Things  are  just  the  same 
between  us,  only,  only  —  well,  I'm  married  and  —  one  thing 
and  another,  you  know." 

He  caught  both  her  hands. 

"  You're  perfectly  happy  ?  " 

She  met  his  eyes, 

«  Perfectly." 

**  Happier  than  you've  ever  been  in  your  life  ? " 

She  dropped  her  eyes. 


218  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

"  Happier  than  I've  ever  been  in  my  life." 

"  And  you'll  come  to  me  just  the  same  if  there's  any  kind 
of  trouble  ? " 

"  Of  course." 

"  You  promise  ?  " 

"  I  promise." 

They  talked  then,  for  a  little  time,  of  other  things.  But 
he  was  not  satisfied.  Rachel's  soul,  caught  away  in  alarm, 
was  still  beyond  his  grasp. 

At  last,  feeling  that  the  moments  were  precious  and  that 
Roddy  might  at  any  instant  appear,  he  sat  down  on  the 
sofa  beside  her. 

"  Rachel  dear.  Something's  worrying  you.  You  won't 
tell  me?" 

"  Nothing's  worrying " 

"  Ah,  but  I  know  —  well,  if  you  won't  you  won't  —  but  if 
you  knew  how  much  I  loved  you  you'd  feel  that  you  were 
cruel  not  to  let  me  help  you." 

"  Dear  Dr.  Chris  —  but  there  is  nothing." 

But  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  you'll  feel  later  on  you 
can  talk  to  me.  Just  come  straight  away  if  you  do  feel 
that." 

He  went  on.  "  Don't  be  frightened,  my  dear,  if  there  are 
a  whole  heap  of  new  emotions,  new  instincts,  stirred  in  you 
by  marriage.  Just  take  them  all  as  they  come.  It's  all 
progress,  you  know.  Don't  be  frightened  of  anything.  Just 
take  the  animal  by  the  head  and  look  at  it." 

That  led  him  to  speak  about  Brun's  Tiger.  He  explained 
it  —  the  force  in  people,  the  way  they  either  grappled  with 
the  creature,  and  at  last  trained  it  to  help  them  with  their 
work  in  the  world,  or  ignored  it,  silenced  it,  allowed  it  at 
last  to  die,  and  so,  cosy  and  lazily  comfortable,  passed  to 
their  day's  end,  but  had,  nevertheless,  missed  the  whole  jmr- 
pose  of  life. 

He  enlarged  on  that  and  showed  the  connection  of  the  in- 


RACHEL  — AND  CHRISTOPHER  219 

dividual  Tiger  with  the  welfare  of  the  world,  so  that  every- 
one who  denied  his  Tiger  added  to  his  world's  muddle  and 
confusion,  and  at  last  there  would  come  an  inevitable  crisis 
when  war  would  spring  up  between  those  who  had  grappled 
with  their  Tiger  and  those  who  had  not. 

"  One  knows  one's  own  Tiger  —  absolutely  of  oneself  one 
knows  it  and  has,  of  oneself,  the  choice  whether  to  grapple 
or  not  —  at  least  that's  what  I  gathered  he  meant  —  I  know 
it  struck  me  at  the  time." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  that  quivered  through  her 
whole  body.  "  It's  so  easy  to  talk.  .  ,  .  But  it's  true  what 
he  says.     I  know  it." 

At  last  Christopher  got  up  to  go.  He  did  not  know 
whether  he  had  done  any  good;  he  felt  that  he  was  a  miser^ 
able  failure,  and  he  had  a  foreboding  that  one  day  he  would 
be  ashamed  indeed  that  he  had  not  helped  her. 

"  Do  something,"  a  voice  seemed  to  tell  him.  "  You'll 
regret  ...  all  your  life  you'll  regret." 

He  turned  and  held  again  her  hands  in  his.  ..."  Rachel 
—  dear  —  tell  me " 

Her  hands  were  chill  and  lifeless.  Her  voice  caught. 
**  Oh !  Dr.  Chris !  .  .  ."  Then  she  suddenly  stepped  back 
from  him  — 

"  It's  all  right.  .  .  .  I'm  all  right.  Come  again  soon, 
Dr.  Chris  dear  —  come  soon." 

He  left  her  and  found  his  way  into  the  hot,  breathless 
street. 

After  he  had  gone  Rachel  sat,  staring  beyond  the  room 
out  on  to  the  white  walls  of  the  houses  and  the  green  branches 
of  the  trees  in  the  square. 

Roddy  came  in. 

All  the  afternoon  he  had  been  thinking  about  her;  at  one 
moment  he  was  furious  with  the  discomfort  that  life  was  now 
becoming  to  him,  at  another  moment  he  was  imagining  little 
plans  that  would  sweep  all  the  discomfort  away. 

All  this  spring  they  had  been  miserable  together.     !N"ow 


220  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

was  beginning  a  time  that  was  always  jolly  in  London  and 
yet  he  could  not  enjoy  a  moment  of  it.  Did  she  dislike  him 
instead  of  liking  him,  or  did  he  like  her  instead  of  loving 
her,  it  would  all  be  so  easy  —  just  the  same  as  any  other 
couple. 

Ever  since  that  silly  Nita  incident  there  had  been  this 
restraint,  and  yet  how  could  that  be  the  cause  ? 

Rachel  had  made  nothing  of  it;  it  was  because  it  had 
meant  so  little  to  her  that  he  had  chafed  so  at  the  remem- 
brance of  it. 

She  was  fond  of  him  —  he  knew  that  —  she  was  miserably 
imhappy. 

He  loved  her  —  and  he  was  miserably  unhappy. 

Damn  this  weather. 

He  looked  at  her,  wondered  what  would  happen  did  he 
cross  over  and  suddenly  kiss  her,  knew  that  he  would  see  her 
struggle  to  be  kind,  to  give  him  what  he  wanted,  knew  that 
that  would  hurt  most  damnably,  and  that  he  would  be  in  a 
bad  temper  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  and  would  wonder 
why  — 

So,  with  a  muttered  word  he  went  out  and  up  to  his  dress- 
ing-room, had  a  bath,  and  then  lay  reading  with  serious 
brows  The  Winning  Post  until  his  man  told  him  that  it  was 
time  to  dress. 

Slowly  and  with  the  absorbed  care  that  he  always  gave  to 
these  preparations  he  made  himself  ready  for  the  Beamin- 
ster  dinner. 


CHAPTER  V 

LIZZIE'S  JOUKNISY  — I 

**  So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgement  making; 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter 
In  sleep  a  king;  but  waking  no  such  matter." 

William  Shakespeare. 


DURING  this  year  Lizzie  Rand  was  glad  that  she  had 
so  much  to  do.  As  she  had  never  until  now  given 
the  romance  in  her  an  opportunity  for  freedom,  so  had  she 
never  before  realized  the  amazing  invasion  upon  life  that 
that  same  romance  might  threaten. 

Indeed  by  the  early  summer  months  of  1899  "  threaten  " 
was  no  longer  an  honest  definition,  for,  now  this  same 
Romance  had  invaded,  had  conquered,  had  confronted  the 
very  citadels  of  Lizzie's  heart,  citadels  never  surveyed  nor 
challenged  at  any  time  before. 

iJ^evertheless,  even  now,  Portland  Place  noticed  no  change 
in  Miss  Rand.  ISTorris,  Mrs.  !N"ewton,  Dorchester  would  still, 
had  they  been  challenged,  have  protested  that  Miss  Rand 
had  no  conception  of  the  softer,  more  sentimental  side  of 
life;  she  was  there  for  discipline  and  order  —  l!^orris  had 
been  known  to  be  led  a  fearful  dance  by  young  women 
"  time  and  again  " —  Mrs.  !Newton  had  passionately  adored 
the  late  Mr.  N^ewton  until  a  sudden  chill  had  carried  him  to 
St.  Agnes,  Bare  Street  Cemetery,  whither  Mrs.  ^Newton, 
every  Sunday,  did  still  make  her  stately  pilgrimage  — 
even  Dorchester  had  once,  it  was  said,  paid  grim  attentions 
to  a  soldier  who  had,  unhappily,  found  in  some  fluffy  young 
woman  a  more  hopeful  comfort. 

Here,  above  and  below  stairs^  passion  had  marked  its  vic- 
tims .  .  .  Miss  Rand  only  could  have  felt  no  touch  of  it 

221 


222  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

She  sometimes  wondered  at  herself  that  she  could  so 
calmly  and  dispassionately  separate  the  one  life  from  the 
other.  Never,  within  that  neat  stem  room  at  Portland 
Place,  was  there  a  shudder  or  sudden  invading  thrill  at  some 
flashing  recollection  or  imagination.  To  her  work  every 
nerve,  every  energy  was  given.  Now,  indeed,  more  than 
ever  before  in  her  experience  of  it  did  104  Portland  Place 
demand  her  presence.  Increasingly  throughout  these  months 
of  1899  was  the  solemn  heavy  air  unsettled. 

Lizzie,  to  whom  all  impression  came  with  sharpening  acute- 
ness,  had  seen  in  the  appearance,  success  and  marriage  of 
Rachel  Beaminster  the  disturbing  elements  at  work  — 
"  Things  will  never  be  the  same  here  again  " —  she  had  said 
to  herself. 

It  was,  of  course,  through  Lady  Adela  that  Lizzie  studied 
the  house.  The  Duchess  she  never  saw,  but  it  was  Lady 
Adela's  attitude,  before  and  after  those  interviews  with  her 
mother,  that  told  their  story.  Lady  Adela  had  never  until 
now  appeared  an  interesting  figure  to  Lizzie,  but  now,  forth 
from  the  dry  sterile  husk  of  her,  a  life,  pathetic,  struggling 
against  heritages  of  dumb  years,  tried  to  come. 

Lady  Adela  was  unhappy;  the  very  foundations  of  her 
existence  threatened  to  dismay  her,  at  any  moment,  by  their 
insecurity.  Within  her  the  Beaminster  tradition  urged,  be- 
fore Lizzie  Hand  at  any  rate,  the  maintenance  of  dignity 
and  indifference,  but  the  novelty  to  her  of  all  this  disturb- 
ance brought  with  it  a  hapless  inability  to  deal  with  it,  and 
again  and  again  little  exclamations,  little  surprised  wonders 
at  what  the  world  could  be  coming  to,  little  confused  clutch- 
ings  at  anything  that  offered  stability,  showed  Lizzie  that 
trouble  was  on  every  side  of  her.  Then  through  the  house 
rumour  began  to  twist  its  way  —  Her  Grace  was  not  so  well 
— "  The  Old  Lady  was  breaking  up  "  (this  in  the  close  se- 
curity of  shuttered  rooms  below  stairs). 

No  one  could  say  whence  these  whispers  gathered.  Dor- 
chester would  admit  nothing.     Her  own  position  in  the  ser- 


LI2ZIE'S  JOmiNEY  — I  223 

▼ants'  hall  was  that  of  a  lofty  uncoiiipromising  female  Jove, 
and  she  knew  well  enough  that  her  supremacy  over  Norris 
and  Mrs.  Newton  depended  on  her  mistress's  supremacy  over 
the  world  in  general.     Not  for  her  then  to  admit  ill  health. 

"  Indeed  no  —  Her  Grace  has  been  better  of  late  than  for 
years  past." 

But  Norris  and  Mrs.  Newton  were  not  to  be  taken  in. 
They  were  truly  proud  now  of  their  alliance  with  the  Bea- 
minster  family  royal,  but,  supposing  Her  Grace  were  to 
leave  this  world  to  rule  in  a  better  one  ("  Here  to-day,  gone  to- 
morrow 'igh  or  low,"  as  Norris  remarked),  why,  then  "  Le 
Koi  est  mort  —  Vive  le  Hoi,"  and  the  Crown  might,  in  the 
meanwhile,  have  passed  elsewhere. 

"  You  mark  my  words,"  Mrs.  Newton  said  to  Norris,  "  'er 
Grace  will  go,  old  Victorier  will  go,  and  where'll  the  Bea- 
minster  crowd  be  then,  I  ask  you  ?  Times  are  movin'  too 
quick.  I  wouldn't  give  a  toss  for  your  Birth  and  Debrett 
and  all  in  another  twenty  years." 

To  Lizzie  also  there  came  other  signs  of  the  times.  She 
noticed  that  now  the  relations  and  friends  of  the  family 
gathered  more  frequently  together  than  ever  before  within 
her  memory.  The  Duke,  Lord  Richard  were  continually  in 
the  house,  and  the  adherents.  Lady  Carloes,  Lord  Crewner, 
the  Massiters  and  all  the  others,  called,  dined,  came  to  tea. 

Throughout  it  all  there  was  no  expression  of  any  change 
in  the  family  policy.  To  Lizzie  Lady  Adela  admitted  noth- 
ing, only  there  were  occasions  when,  almost  against  her  will, 
she  asked  for  advice,  was  uncertain  a  little,  vague  a  little, 
even  appealing  a  little. 

Here  Lizzie  was  exactly  right,  assisted  and  yet  admitted 
no  need  for  assistance.     Her  tact  was  perfect. 

Lizzie  had  also  Lady  Seddon  to  besiege  her  attention. 

To  her  considerable  surprise  Eachel  had  written  to  her 
three  times  during  this  year.  On  each  occasion  there  had 
been  some  definite  reason  for  writing,  but  behind  the  reason 
there  had  been  some  implied  friendliness  and  Lizzie  had.  in 


224  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

her  turn,  sent  answers  tliat  were  more  than  businesslike  re* 
plies. 

Lizzie  had  seen  Rachel  several  times  in  January  and  at 
each  meeting  her  impression  of  Rachel's  imhappiness  had 
grown. 

"  ThereVe  been  three  of  you,"  Lizzie  said  to  herself. 
"  There  was  the  girl  in  the  schoolroom,  and  a  fierce  awkward 
difficult  creature  she  was.  There  was  the  girl  in  her  first 
season,  and  a  delightful,  joyful,  radiant  creature  she  was. 
And  now  —  well,  there's  a  girl  married,  fierce  again,  suffering 
again  —  above  all,  afraid  of  herself." 

In  May  Rachel  asked  Lizzie  to  go  and  see  her,  and  Lizzie 
went.  That  meeting  was  in  no  way  personal :  Rachel  seemed 
less  friendly  than  she  had  been  on  that  day,  a  year  ago,  when 
she  had  been  to  Lizzie's,  but  behind  all  that  outward  stiffness 
the  appeal  was  there. 

"  She  wants  me  to  help  her,"  thought  Lizzie.  "  She's  too 
proud  now  to  ask  me :  the  time  will  come  though." 

All  this  was  connected,  she  knew,  with  the  fortunes  of  the 
house.  Through  Lord  John,  Lord  Richard,  the  Duke,  Lady 
Adela,  Dorchester,  E'orris,  Mrs.  Newton,  the  spirit  of  uneasi- 
ness was  abroad. 

The  Duchess,  during  these  months,  more  than  ever  before, 
was  present  in  every  room  and  passage  of  the  house  — 

The  shadow  of  some  coming  event  hovered. 

II 

Over  Lizzie's  other  life,  also,  the  Duchess  hovered.  Were 
any  disaster  to  snatch  Her  Grace  from  the  domination  of  this 
world  into  a  comparatively  humble  position  in  the  next, 
Lizzie  did  not  doubt  that  the  Beaminsters  would  once  more 
take  Erancis  Breton  into  their  ranks.  It  was  the  Duchess 
who  held  the  gate  against  him. 

The  romantic  side  of  her  did  not  hold  complete  dominion. 
She  knew  that  were  Erancis  Breton  once  more  accepted  by 
the  family,  his  distance  from  her  would  be  greatly  increased. 


LIZZIE'S  JOUKI^Y  — I  225 

Were  he,  on  the  other  hand,  to  marry  her  whilst  he  was  yet 
an  exile,  then  had  she  no  fear  of  after  consequences.  She 
could  hold  her  own  with  anyone. 

She  had  now  very  little  doubt  that  he  loved  her.  She  had 
seen,  during  the  last  year,  the  flame  of  some  passion  burning 
in  his  eyes,  increasingly  he  depended  upon  her  and  found 
opportunities  for  being  with  her.  There  was  no  other  woman 
whom  he  saw,  of  that  she  was  convinced. 

Often  he  had  been  about  to  tell  her  some  secret  and  then 
had  refrained ;  she  thought  that  he  was  waiting  until  he  could 
be  quite  assured  that  she  loved  him,  and  she  had  fancied 
that  since  that  day  in  last  December  when  the  first  snow  had 
fallen  and  they  had  had  that  little  talk  together  he  had  been 
much  happier,  as  though  he  were  now  convinced  of  her  love 
for  him. 

The  spring  passed  and  still  his  confession  did  not  come. 
With  the  early  summer  he  seemed  to  be  once  more  unhappy 
and  unsettled,  and  throughout  May  she  scarcely  saw  him. 

Then  in  July  he  asked  her  whether  she  would  dine  with  him 
and  go  to  the  theatre.  He  had  two  dress  circle  tickets  for 
Mrs.  Lemiter's  Decision. 

Something  told  her  that  on  this  evening  he  would  speaK 
to  her. 

As  she  dressed  her  fingers  trembled  so  that  buttons  and 
hooks  and  laces  were  of  terrible  difficulty.  In  the  glass  she 
saw  her  cheeks  flaming;  she  wished  she  were  taller,  not  so 
sturdy.  The  lines  of  her  face,  she  thought,  were  all  so  set  as 
though  they  knew  well  for  what  purpose  they  were  there. 
"  Business  we're  here  for  .  .  ."  they  seemed  to  say. 

For  once  she  envied  her  sister's  fair  rounded  fluffiness. 
Her  black  evening  dress  was  fashionable,  almost  smart,  but 
just  a  little  stem :  she  fastened  some  dark  red  carnations  into 
her  waist  and  hung  around  her  throat  a  chain  of  tiny  pearls, 
her  only  piece  of  jewellery.  Her  hair  was  restrained  and 
disciplined  —  she  could  not  extract  from  it  any  waves  or  soft 
indulgencief^ 


226  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

At  the  end,  staring  at  her  reflection,  she  let  herself  go. 

*'  He's  seen  me  all  this  time  as  I  am.  How  silly  to  try  to 
alter  things !  "  Her  face  glowed,  the  pearls  and  carnations 
seemed  to  smile  encouragement  to  her. 

What  possibilities  had  this  new,  this  wonderful  Lizzie 
Rand !  What  a  life  might  be  hers !  What  a  happy,  fortu- 
nate woman  she  was! 

God,  how  grateful  she  was ! 

Mrs.  Eand  saw  them  off  in  a  four-wheeler  with  an  air  of 
reluctance.  It  always  hurt  her  that  anyone  should  go  to  the 
theatre  without  her. 

Of  course  Lizzie  was  old  enough  by  now  to  look  after  her- 
self, but  at  the  same  time  this  Mr.  Breton  was  no  safe  char- 
acter and  it  would  have  been  altogether  "  nicer  "  if  Lizzie 
had  suggested  her  company  — 

Lizzie  had  not  suggested  it;  with  a  shiver  Mrs.  Rand  re- 
signed herself  to  an  evening  made  hideous  by  a  vision  of  a 
world  crowded  with  theatres  through  whose  portals  gay  au- 
diences were  pouring  — 

"  Of  course  it's  selfish  of  her,"  she  said  again  and  again  to 
Daisy  — "  Selfish  is  the  only  word." 

Meanwhile  the  cab  was,  for  Lizzie,  a  chariot  of  happiness. 
He  looked  splendid  to-night,  more  romantic  than  he  had  ever 
been,  with  his  pointed  beard,  his  armless  sleeve  buttoned 
across  on  to  his  coat,  his  top-hat  shining,  his  clothes  fitting  so 
perfectly.  Poor  though  he  was,  he  always  stood  up  as  smart 
as  anyone,  the  Duke  or  Lord  John  were  no  smarter. 

Did  he  realize,  she  wondered,  that  the  edge  of  his  hand 
touched  the  silk  of  her  dress  ?  Did  he  notice  the  absurd  way 
that  the  pearls  jumped  up  and  down  on  her  throat  ?  Did  he 
feel  the  little  shiver  of  happiness  that  ran  through  her  body 
and  out  at  her  toes  and  fingers  ? 

The  chariot  was  dark,  but  beyond  it  there  were  piled  lighted 
buildings;  before  these  ran  streets  that  flung  dark  figures, 
here  one  by  one,  now  in  throngs,  against  the  glittering  colour. 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY —  I  227 

She  could  not  believe  that  anyone  there  by  the  lumbering 
cab  could  show  happiness  that  could  equal  hers. 

Had  she  been  coldly  surveying,  from  the  careful  distance 
of  an  outside  observer,  these  emotions  in  some  other  woman 
she  would  have  demanded  her  reasons  for  such  expectation  of 
happiness,  but  it  was  her  very  inexperience  of  any  other  such 
affair  in  her  life  that  allowed  her  now  to  rest  assured.  As  he 
touched  her  hand  to  help  her  into  the  restaurant  she  was  sure, 
by  the  beating  of  her  heart,  that  she  could  not  be  deceived. 

The  restaurant  was  in  Pall  Mall,  and  as  she  went  in  she 
noticed  the  string  of  faithful  people  waiting  round  the  comer 
of  Her  Majesty's  Theatre;  she  was  glad  that  there  were  so 
many  others  enjoying  themselves  to-night. 

They  sat  at  a  little  round  table  on  a  balcony  and  below 
them  other  happy  people  were  laughing  and  talking  — 
Flowers,  lights,  women  not  so  beautiful  that  they  disheartened 
one,  and,  from  the  open  windows,  a  whir,  a  rattle,  a  shout,  % 
cry,  a  bell,  a  hurdy-gurdy,  a  laugh  —  Oh  I  the  world  was  turn- 
ing to-night! 

There  was  a  beautiful  dinner,  but  she  was  far  too  happy  to 
eat  much.  He  seemed  to  understand.  They  both  talked  a 
little,  but  it  was,  it  appeared,  implied  between  them  that  their 
real  conversation  should  be  postponed. 

She  was,  to  herself,  an  utterly  new  Lizzie  Rand  to-night,  in- 
articulate, uncertain,  confused. 

"  What's  this  the  papers  say  about  South  Africa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  looks  as  though  there  were  going  to  be  trouble 
there.     But  you  can  trust  Milner  —  a  strong  man " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so  —  but  it  seems  a  pity  that  this  Confer- 
ence that  they  hoped  so  much  from  has  all  fallen  through, 
doesn't  it  ?     They  do  seem  obstinate  people." 

"  Well,  they  are.  I  was  out  in  Pretoria  in  '95  —  obstinate 
as  mules.  But  there  won't  be  much  trouble  —  a  troop  or  two 
of  our  fellows  have  only  got  to  show  their  faces " 

"  Yes,  of  course.     Isn't  that  a  pretty  woman  down  there  ? 


228  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

There  to  the  right  —  with  the  black  hair  and  the  diamonds  — « 
tall  — '' 

But  tall  women  with  black  hair  and  Boers  in  South  Africa 
were  merely  points  to  catch  hold,  and,  for  an  instant,  the  thrill 
of  the  contact  and  the  anticipation  and  the  glorious  vision  of 
the  wonderful  future. 

Him  all  this  time  she  closely  observed.  He  was  not  en- 
tirely at  his  ease,  when  she  had  been  in  public  with  him  before 
she  had  noticed  it,  his  glance  at  every  new-comer,  his  con- 
scious summoning  of  control  lest  it  should  be  someone  whom 
he  had  once  known,  someone  who  might  now,  perhaps,  not 
know  him. 

It  made  him  in  her  eyes  all  the  younger,  all  the  more 
happily  demanding  her  protection;  how  terribly  she  loved 
him  she  had  never,  she  thought,  realized  until  this  moment. 

The  Haymarket  Theatre,  where  Mrs.  Lemiter's  Decision 
had  been  given  to  a  grateful  world  for  nearly  two  hundred 
nights,  was  next  door. 

In  a  moment  they  were  there  and  the  band  was  playing 
and  the  lights  were  up,  and  then  the  band  was  not  playing 
and  the  lights  were  down,  and  she  was  instantly  conscious  of 
the  places  where  his  body  touched  hers  and  of  his  hand  lying 
white  upon  his  knee. 

She,  Lizzie  Band,  most  perfect  of  private  secretaries,  most 
sedate  and  composed  of  women,  found  it  all  that  her  self- 
control  could  secure  that  she  should  not  then  and  there  have 
touched  that  hand  with  her  own. 

It  was  not  really  a  good  play.  There  was  a  lady,  Mrs. 
Lemiter,  who  had  once  done  what  she  should  not  have  done. 
There  were  a  number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  placed  round 
her  by  the  author,  in  order  that  she  should,  for  the  benefit 
of  as  many  audiences  as  possible,  confess  what  she  had  done. 

During  the  first  and  second  acts  Mrs.  Lemiter  made  little 
dashes  towards  escape  and  the  author  (naturally  omniscient) 
always  placed  someone  in  front  of  her  just  in  time  and  there 
>vere  cries  of  "  Not  this  way,  my  good  woman."     At  the  end 


LIZZIE'S  JOUENEY  — I  229 

of  the  third  act,  Mrs.  Lemiter,  thoroughly  bored  and  eixas- 
perated,  turned  on  them  all  and,  fdr  a  good  twenty  minutes, 
told  them  what  she  thought  of  them. 

During  the  fourth  act  they  all  assured  her  that  they  liked 
her  very  much  and  that,  as  it  was  now  eleven  o'clock  and  she'd 
lost  her  temper  so  successfully  that  the  house  would  certainly 
be  filled  for  many  months  to  come,  they'd  all  better  have  tea 
or  dinner,  whilst  a  young  couple,  who  had  throughout  the 
play  loved  one  another  and  quarrelled,  made  it  up  again. 

When  the  play  was  at  an  end  Lizzie  did  not  know  what  it 
had  been  about.  She  took  his  hand  and  when  he  was  about 
to  hail  a  cab  stopped  him. 

"  Let's  walk,"  she  said,  "  it's  such  a  lovely  night." 

He  eagerly  agreed  and  they  started. 

m 

She  knew  that  her  moment  had  come ;  he  knew  too  —  she 
could  tell  that  because  all  the  way  up  the  Haymarket  he  said 
nothing. 

Piccadilly  Circus  was  a  screaming  confusion.  A  music- 
hall  invited  you  to  come  and  hear  "  Harry  and  Clare,  draw- 
ing-room entertainers."  Lights  —  red  and  green  and  gold  — 
flashed  and  advised  drinks  and  hair-oil  and  tobacco.  Ladies, 
highly  coloured  and  a  little  dishevelled,  stared  haughtily  but 
inquisitively  about  them,  boys  shouted  newspapers  and  dived 
under  horses  and  appeared,  miracidously  delivered  from  tha 
wheels  of  omnibuses. 

It  was  a  rushing,  whirling  confusion  and  through  it  his  arm 
led  her,  happier  in  his  secure  guard  than  in  anything  else 
Tinder  heaven. 

Regent  Street  was  quiet  and  softly  coloured  above  the  mael- 
strom into  which  it  flowed.     He  suddenly  began : 

"  IVe  got  something  I  want  to  tell  you  —  something  I've 
wanted  to  tell  you  for  a  long  time.  You  must  have 
seen " 

Her  voice,  coming  to  her  as  though  it  were  a  stranger's,  said, 


230  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

'*  Yes."  At  tke  same  time,  looking  about  her,  almost  un- 
consciously, she  registered  her  memory  of  the  place  and  the 
hour  —  the  shelving  street,  rising  with  its  lamps  reflected,  be- 
fore them,  a  bank  of  dark  cloud  that  had  suddenly  appeared 
and  hung,  sinister  against  the  night  sky,  behind  the  white 
houses,  a  slip  of  a  silver  moon  surveying  this  same  cloud  with 
anxiety  because  it  knew  that  soon  its  darkness  would  engulf 
it. 

"  I've  wanted  to  tell  you,"  he  began  again,  "  this  long  time. 
It's  needed  courage,  and  things  during  this  last  year  have 
rather  taken  my  courage  away  from  me." 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid,"  she  said  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  You  ought  to  know  by  this  time  that  you  can  tell  me  any- 
thing, Mr.  Breton." 

"  Yes,  I  do  know,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  Of  course  I  know. 
What  you've  been  to  me  all  this  last  year  —  I  simply  can't 
think  how  I'd  have  kept  up  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

"  Oh,  please,"  she  said. 

"  No,  but  it's  true.  Even  with  you  it's  been  a  bit  of  a 
fight" 

He  paused.  She  saw  that  the  black  cloud  had  already  swal- 
lowed up  the  moon  and  that  a  few  raindrops  were  beginning 
to  fall. 

He  went  on :  "  You  must  have  seen  that  all  this  time  some- 
thing's been  helping  me.  I've  never  spoken  to  you,  but  you've 
known " 

The  moment  had  come.  Her  heart  had  surely  stopped  its 
beat  and  she  was  glad,  in  her  happiness,  of  the  rain  that  was 
now  falling  more  swiftly. 

"  I  don't  know  — "  he  stammered  a  little.  "  It's  so  diffi- 
cult. It's  come  to  this,  that  I  must  speak  to  somebody  and 
you're  the  only  person,  the  only  person.  But  even  with  one's 
best  friends  —  one  knows  Jiiem  so  slightly  —  after  all,  per- 
haps, you'll  think  it  very  wrong " 

At  that  word  it  was  as  though  a  great  hammer  had,  of  a 


LIZZIE'S  JOUENEY  — I  231 

sudden,  hit  her  heart  and  slain  it.  The  street,  shining  with 
the  rain,  rose  ever  so  little  and  bent  towards  her. 

"  Wrong  ?  "  she  said,  looking  up  at  him. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  know  about  your  standards  —  you've  been 
always  so  kind  to  me  and  put  up  with  my  faults  and  so  I've 
been  encouraged " 

Her  relief  should  have  awaked  the  gods  of  Olympus  with 
its  triumph. 

"  I've  meant  everything  I've  ever  said " 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  you  have  and  that's  why  I  think  you'll 
understand.  As  I  say,  I've  got  to  tell  someone  or  I'll  burst. 
It's  just  this  —  it's  my  cousin  Rachel  —  Lady  Seddon.  Ever 
since  we  first  met  in  your  room  she's  been  my  whole  world. 
Nothing  else  has  mattered.  It's  she  that's  kept  me  all  these 
months  from  going  under.  She's  my  life,  my  whole  exist- 
ence now  and  in  the  world  to  come,  if  there  is  one.  Oh! 
Thank  God !  "  he  cried.  "  I've  told  someone  at  last.  If  you 
don't  approve  I  can't  help  it.  I  know  you'll  keep  my  secret 
and,  after  all,  it's  nothing  very  terrible.  I'm  content  to  go 
on  like  this,  just  seeing  her  sometimes,  writing  to  her  some- 
times. Now  you  know.  Miss  Eand,  what's  been  my  secret 
all  this  tima  I've  felt  it's  been  between  us  and  that's  why 
I  had  to  tell  you.  We'll  be  twice  the  friends  that  we  were 
now  that  I've  told  you.  And  I  must,  I  miLst  have  someone 
to  talk  to  about  her  sometimes.  It's  been  killing  me,  getting 
along  without  it." 

Now  that  he  had  begun  words  poured  from  him.  He  did 
not  know  that  it  was  raining;  he  saw  only  Eachel  with  her 
white  face  and  dark  hair. 

Lizzie  pulled  her  wrap  about  her;  she  was  very  cold  and 
the  rain  was  coming  fast. 

He  was  suddenly  conscious  of  this. 

"  I  say,  what  a  brute  I  am !  It's  pouring !  "  He  called  a 
passing  hansom  and  they  climbed  into  it. 

He  was  aware  that  she  had  said  nothing. 


2S2  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

"  There  I  "  he  said,  "  you  wish  I  hadn't  told  you.  I  know 
you  do.     You're  shocked." 

"  N'o,"  she  said,  struggling  to  prevent  her  teeth  from  chat- 
tering. 

He  felt  her  shiver.  "Why!  you're  shaking  with  cold! 
"We  oughtn't  to  have  walked,  but  I  did  so  want  to  speak  to 
you  about  this.  We  must  talk  about  it  another  time.  But,  I 
say?  you  aren't  really  horrified  about  it,  are  you  ?  " 

"  'No"  she  said  again.  "  Another  time  though  —  There 
must  be  thunder.     This  storm  makes  my  head  ache." 

She  could  say  no  more.  The  rest  of  the  drive  was  in 
silence.  In  the  hall  she  thanked  him  for  her  delightful 
evening. 

She  looked  through  the  drawing-room  door  and  wished  her 
mother  and  sister  good  night,  but  did  not  stay  to  discuss 
incidents. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Eand,  who  had  a  fine  list  of  questions 
ready  about  the  play  — "  There's  selfishness !  " 

Lizzie  locked  her  door,  undressed  and  lay  down. 

Like  a  sword  jagging  through  and  through  her  brain  and 
piercing  from  there  dovm  to  her  heart  stabbed  the  refrain: 

"Oh!     I  hate  her!     I  hate  her!     I  hate  her  I" 

So,  wide-eyed,  she  lay  throughout  the  night. 


CHAPTEK  VI 

ALL  THE  BEAMINSTEES 

**  We  must  expect  change,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Of  weather  ? "  asked  Miss  Tox  in  her  simplicity. 

"  Of  everything,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Of  course  we  must.  It's 
a  world  of  change.  Anyone  would  surprise  me  very  much,  Lucretia, 
and  would  greatly  alter  my  opinion  of  their  understanding,  if  they 
attempted  to  contradict  or  evade  what  is  so  perfectly  evident. 
Change!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  severe  philosophy  —  "Why,  my 
gracious  me,  what  is  there  that  does  not  change!  Even  the  silkworm, 
who  I  am  sure  might  be  supposed  not  to  trouble  itself  about  such  sub- 
jects, changes  into  all  sorts  of  unexpected  things  continually." 

Dombey  and  Son. 


AT  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  Wednesday,  October 
11th,  in  this  year  1899  war  between  England  anji 
South  Africa  was  declared. 

At  that  same  hour  on  that  same  afternoon  an  afternoon 
party  was  given  by  Lady  Adela  Beaminster  at  104  Portland 
Place,  and  all  the  more  important  believers  in  the  Beaminster 
religion  were  present. 

The  Long  Drawing-room  had  the  happy  property  of  ex- 
tending to  accommodate  its  company  and  now,  shadowy  as 
its  comers  always  were,  it  yielded  the  impression  still  of  size 
and  space,  its  mirrors  reflecting  its  dark  green  walls  that 
receded  from  the  figures  that  thronged  it. 

The  Duchess  (now  Ross's  portrait  of  her)  hung  above  the 
Adams  fireplace  and  a  little  globe  of  light  shone,  on  this  dark 
October  day,  up  into  that  sharp  and  wizened  face  and  lit 
those  bending  fingers  and  flung  forward  the  dull  green  jade 
and  the  dark  black  dress. 

Many  people  were  present.  The  Duke,  Lord  John,  Lord 
Richard  of  course  —  also,  of  course.  Lady  Carloes,  the  Massi- 
ters,  Lord  Crewner,  Monty  Carfax,  Brun,  Maurice  Garden 

233 


234  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

the  novelist,  and  his  wife  —  also  a  fine  collection  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  important  in  politics,  in  the  graver  camps  of  so- 
ciety —  also  a  certain  number  who  belonged  by  party  to 
those  whom  Brun  had  once  called  the  Aristocrats,  the  Chi- 
ehesters,  the  Medleys,  the  Darrants.  Old  Lady  Darrant  was 
there  looking  like  a  cook,  and  Fred  Chichester  with  his  kind 
and  freckled  features,  and  Mrs.  Medley  who  had  married 
Judge  Medley's  only  son. 

Of  the  Democrats  —  of  the  Euddards,  the  Denisons,  the 
Oaks,  not  one  to  be  seen. 

The  men  and  women  who  stood  about  in  the  room  seemed 
strangely,  oddly,  of  one  family.  No  human  being  present 
was  without  his  or  her  self-consciousness,  but  it  was  a  self- 
consciousness  that  had  about  it  nothing  vulgar  or  strident. 
No  voice  in  that  room  was  raised ;  the  very  laughter  implied, 
"  Here  we  are,  in  the  very  Court  of  our  Temple ;  we  may  then 
relax  a  little.  For  a  time,  at  any  rate,  we  know  who  we  all 
are." 

This  security  was  implied  on  every  hand.  It  was: 
"  Young  Rorke's  going  out  —  he's  the  son  of  Alice  Branches 
—  he  married  old  Truddits'  daughter,"  or  — 

"  No,  I  don't  know  him  personally,  but  Dick  Bamett  has 
seen  him  once  or  twice  and  says  he's  a  very  decent  feller," 
or  — 

"  Well,  I  should  go  carefully,  if  I  were  you.  Neither  the 
Massiters  nor  the  Crawfords  know  her  and,  in  fact,  I  can't 
find  anyone  who  does." 

Had  a  stranger  penetrated  into  the  fastnesses  of  the  Chi- 
chesters  or  the  Medleys  he  would  have  been  overwhelmed 
with  courtesy  and  politeness  and,  unless  he  had  full  creden- 
tials, would  have  been  utterly  excluded  at  the  end  of  it. 
Had  he  boldly  invaded  the  Denisons  he  would,  unless  he 
could  prove  his  contribution  to  the  entertainment  of  the  day, 
have  been  told  frankly  that  he  was  not  wanted. 

Had  he  passed  the  doors  of  No.  104  and  had  no  proof  of  his 


ALL  THE  BEAMINSTERS  235 

Seaminster  faith  upon  him,  Norris  would  have  exchanged 
with  him  a  quiet  word  or  two  and  he  would  have  found  him- 
self in  the  bright  spaces  of  Portland  Place. 

Rachel  and  Eoddy  had  come  to  the  party.  Eachel  sat  on 
a  high  chair  and  looked  stiff  and  pale ;  Ladj  Darrant,  bunched 
up  in  an  arm-chair,  was  beside  her.  Lady  Darrant' s  emotions 
were  divided  between  the  welfare  of  the  church  in  her  parish 
in  Wiltshire  and  the  welfare  of  her  only  son,  a  boy  aged 
twenty  who,  supposed  to  be  studying  for  the  Diplomatic 
Service,  was  really  interested  in  race  meetings  and  polo. 
Lady  Darrant  had,  like  most  of  the  Aristocrats,  a  tranquil 
mind.  Sorrow,  tragedies,  perplexities  might  come  and  go,  the 
plain  surface  stability  was  in  no  way  disturbed.  She  would 
have  liked  to  possess  more  money  that  she  might  bestow  it 
upon  the  church,  and  she  would  have  preferred  that  her  son 
should  place  foreign  languages  above  horses,  but,  since  these 
things  were  not  so,  God  knew  best  and  the  world  might  have 
been  much  worse:  none  of  her  friends  were  ever  agitated, 
outwardly  at  any  rate.  Life  was  calm,  sure,  proceeding  from 
a  definite  commencement  to  a  definite  conclusion  and  —  God 
knew  best  Eumours  came  to  her  of  atheists  and  chorus 
girls  and  American  millionaires,  but  she  was  neither  alarmed 
nor  dismayed. 

At  a  Beaminster  entertainment  she  felt  that  she  was 
among  strangers.  Her  account  of  such  an  affair  given  after- 
wards to  friends  implied  that  this  world  into  which  she  had 
glanced  was  not  her  world.  Lady  Adela  frightened  her  and 
the  mere  suggestion  of  the  Duchess,  whom  she  had  never  seen, 
threatened  more  fiercely  h€  r  tranquillity  than  any  other  event 
or  person. 

Now,  every  minute  or  so,  she  flung  little  agitated  glances 
at  the  portrait.  At  the  back  of  her  mind,  this  afternoon, 
was  the  reflection  that  there  was  going  to  be  a  war  and  that 
quite  certainly  her  boy,  Tony,  would  insist  on  helping  his 
country. 


2d6  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

She  was  proud  that  he  should  insist,  but,  had  she  not  bei'n 
quite  so  confident  of  God's  care  for  her,  would  have  been  very 
near  to  most  real  agitation. 

She  looked  at  Rachel  timidly  and  wondered  whether  that 
strange,  fierce,  pale  girl  would  be  sympathetic.  She  had 
heard  of  Rachel  and  her  marriage,  and  she  knew  that  that 
rather  stout  healthy-looking  young  man  standing  and  talking 
to  Lord  John  Beaminster  was  the  husband. 

He  looked  kinder  than  she  did,  Lady  Darrant  thought. 

"  It's  terrible  about  this  horrid  war,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  said  at 
last. 

Rachel,  watching  the  room,  was  absorbed  by  her  own 
thoughts ;  she  scarcely  noticed  the  little  woman  beside  her. 

She  saw  Uncle  John,  his  white  hair  and  happy  smile  and 
large  rather  shapeless  body,  his  way  of  laughing  with  his  head 
flung  back,  the  look  of  him  when  he  was  thinking,  his  face 
precisely  that  of  a  puzzled  pig  —  simply  to  see  him  there 
across  the  room  brought  back  to  her  a  flood  of  memories. 

She  knew  that  she  had  avoided  him  lately  and  she  knew, 
too,  that  he  was  unhappy  about  her.  He  was  unhappy,  poor 
Uncle  John,  about  a  number  of  things  —  always  behind  his 
laughter  and  cheerful  greetings  there  was  the  little  restless 
distress  as  though  Life  were  offering  him,  just  now,  more  than 
he  could  control. 

Rachel  looked  and  then  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  to  Lady  Darrant,  "  I  hope  it  won't  bo 
very  much.  They  say  that  a  week  or  two  will  see  the  end  of 
it." 

Truly,  for  herself,  this  afternoon  was  almost  too  difficult 
for  her.  She  had  received,  that  morning,  a  letter  from 
Erancis  Breton  asking  her  to  go  to  tea  with  him  in  his  rooms, 
one  day  within  the  following  week. 

She  had  never  been  to  his  rooms;  she  had  not  met  him 
once  during  the  whole  year. 

She  had  known,  during  all  these  last  twelve  months,  that 
meeting  him  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  especial  claim 


ALL  THE  BEAMINSTERS  237 

that  they  had  upon  one  another.  That  claim  had  existed 
eince  that  day  of  their  first  coming  face  to  face  and  nothing 
now  could  ever  alter  it. 

But  the  next  time  that  they  met  must  be,  for  both  of  them, 
a  definite  landmark.  She  might  either  decide,  now,  once 
and  for  all,  never  to  see  him  again,  or  grasp,  quite  definitely, 
the  possible  result  of  her  going  to  him. 

The  writing  of  this  letter  brought,  at  last,  upon  her  the 
climax  that  she  had  been  avoiding  during  the  last  year. 

Sitting  there  in  the  Beaminster  camp  it  was  difficult  to 
act  without  prejudice.  With  the  exception  of  Uncle  John 
and  Eoddy  she  hated  them  all. 

After  all  if  she  were  to  refuse  to  see  Francis  Breton  did  it 
solve  the  question  ?  Did  it  help  her  —  and  that  was  the  great 
need  of  her  present  life  —  to  love  Eoddy  any  better  ? 

And  if  she  went  to  his  rooms  and  saw  him,  would  not  the 
truth  emerge  from  that  meeting  and  the  miserable  doubts 
and  temptations  that  had  shadowed  her  since  her  marriage 
be  cleared  away  for  ever? 

She  liked  Roddy  and  did  not  love  him  —  nothing  could 
alter  that. 

Breton  and  she  belonged  to  a  world  that  was  hostile  to  this 
world  that  she  was  now  in  —  nothing  could  alter  that. 

Yes,  she  would  go  and  see  Breton.  She  got  up,  smiled  at 
Lady  Darrant  and  went  across  the  room  to  talk  to  Uncle  John. 

On  this  afternoon  she  had  a  great  overpowering  longing  for 
someone  to  love  her,  to  care  for  her,  to  pity  her,  to  take  her 
into  their  arms  and  whisper  comfort  to  her.  It  was  so  long 
—  oh !  so  long,  since  Dr.  Chris  and  Uncle  John  had  done  that. 

And  yet  —  the  irony  of  it  —  there  was  Koddy  eager  to  do 
^  it  all :  and  from  him,  the  fates  had  decreed  that  it  should 
mean  nothing  to  her. 

"  Why  can't  he  touch  me  ?  Why  can't  he  give  me  what  I 
want  ?     Is  it  my  fault  ?     Whose  fault  is  it  ?  " 

And  when  she  came  to  Uncle  John  she  was  almost  afraid  to 
look  at  him  lest  he  should  see  the  unhappiness  in  her  eye*. 


'^88  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

But,  in  spite  of  her  unhappiness,  she  could  be  satirically 
observant.  Her  grandmother,  up  there  on  the  wall,  con- 
trolled, like  the  moon,  this  tide  of  human  beings.  They 
flowed  forward,  they  retreated.  About  them,  around  them, 
l)ehind  and  in  front  of  them  hovered  this  War.  .  .  . 

Rachel  knew  that  it  was  the  Beaminster  doctrine  that 
anything  that  occurred  to  the  nation  was  to  be  attributed,  in 
the  main,  to  Beaminster  principles.  She  could  tell  at  once 
that  they  had  seized  upon  this  war  as  an  example  of  Bea- 
minster government.  Had  diplomacy  prevented  it,  behold  the 
triumph  of  Beaminster  diplomacy;  now,  as  it  had  not  been 
prevented,  a  swift  and  total  triumph  would  assert  the  genius 
of  Beaminster  militancy. 

**  A  week  out  there  ought  to  be  enough.  .  .  .  It's  tire- 
some, of  course,  but  they'll  soon  have  had  enough  of  it.  .  .  ." 

Even  Rachel,  looking  up  at  the  portrait,  might,  not  too 
fantastically,  imagine  that  this  war  presented  the  last  great 
manifestation  of  power  on  the  part  of  that  old  woman. 

Everyone  in  the  room,  perhaps,  felt  the  same. 

n 

Many  eyes  were  upon  her  as  she  moved  across  to  Lord 
John.  This  girl,  with  the  foreign  colour  and  bearing, 
taving,  apparently,  so  little  of  the  Beaminster  about  her  and 
making  so  quickly  so  conventional  a  marriage  ("  One  hadn't 
expected  her  to  care  about  a  man  like  Seddon  "),  stirred  their 
curiosity. 

Monty  Carfax,  licensed  transmitter  of  public  opinion,  re- 
ported her  unpopular.  "  Met  her  one  week-end  at  the 
Massiters' — that  very  time  when  Seddon  proposed.  Didn't 
like  her  and,  really,  can't  find  anyone  who  does.  Conceited, , 
farouche.  It's  my  opinion  Roddy  Seddon  finds  her  difficult." 
"  Yes,  but  she's  interesting,"  someone  would  reply,  "  unusual. 
Dissatisfied-looking  —  not  at  all  happy,  I  should  say." 

Lady  Adela,  stiff,  awkward  but  important,  in  an  ugly  grey 


ALL  THE  BEAMINSTEKS  239 

dress  found  Lord  Crewner  the  only  helpful  person  in  the  room. 
He  seemed  to  understand  the  way  that  worries  accumulated 
about  one  and  yet  refused  to  be  defined.  .  .  .  He  stayed 
near  her  throughout  the  afternoon.  She  saw  Eachel  moving 
across  to  her  brother  and  the  sight  of  her  stirred  all  her  dis- 
comfort. 

"  Why  need  she  look  as  though  she  hated  everyone  ?  "  she 
thought. 

Rachel  came  at  length  to  Uncle  John  and  found  him  talk- 
ing to  Maurice  Garden,  That  large  and  prosperous  gentle- 
man hastily  proclaimed  his  delight  in  meeting  Rachel  again, 
but  she  had  very  little  to  say  to  him. 

He  left  them,  secretly  determined  that  he  would  never 
speak  to  the  girl  again  if  he  could  help  it. 

Uncle  John  regarded  her  with  an  air  of  supplicating 
nervousness. 

"  Come  along,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  We  haven't  had  a 
talk  for  weeks.     Let's  find  a  comer  somewhere " 

They  found  a  comer  and  then  were  both  of  them  uncom- 
fortable. The  girl  whom  Uncle  John  had  known  and  loved 
had  had  her  tempers  and  intolerances,  but  she  had  also  had 
her  wonderful  spontaneous  affections  and  tendernesses. 

Now  she  sat  there  looking  straight  before  her  and  replying 
only  in  monosyllables  to  his  questions. 

She  was  saying  to  herself:     "  Shall  I  go  ?     Shall  I  go  ?  " 

At  last  he  said  timidly : 

"  You'll  see  mother  before  you  leave  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Rachel  said. 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  not  very  well." 

**  "Not  very  well  ?  "  Rachel  looked  up  at  him  sharply,  Lord 
John  stared  away  from  her.  iNo  one  had  ever  said  that 
publicly  before,  Lord  John  himself  wondered  at  his  words 
when  he  had  spoken  them. 

"  Of  course  she  doesn't  admit  it,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "  No 
one  says  anything  about  it  —  even  Christopher.     I  oughtn't 


240  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

perhaps  to  have  said  anything  myself  —  but  I  thought ^ 

He  broke  off.  Eachel  knew  that  he  meant  that  she  should  bo 
kind  and  considerate  on  this  visit. 

Before  she  could  say  anything  the  Duke  came  up  and  joined 
them. 

It  always  amused  Rachel  to  see  her  two  uncles  together. 
The  Duke  was  a  little  dried-up  wasp  of  a  man,  absolutely 
selfish,  with  a  satirical  tongue  and  a  self-conceit  that  nothing 
could  pierce.  He  wore  high  white  collars,  over  which  his 
brown  sharp  face  searched  for  compliments.  He  walked  on 
his  toes,  his  hands  were  most  wonderfully  manicured  and  his 
trousers  were  so  stiff  and  rigid  over  his  thin  little  legs  that 
they  looked  like  iron.  The  one  soft  spot  in  him  was  a 
strangely  tender  affection  for  his  sister  Adela  which  was  in 
no  way  returned ;  for  her,  and  for  her  alone,  he  would  forget 
his  selfishness.     Eichard  and  John  he  despised. 

"  Well,  John,''  he  said.     "  Well,  Eachel  ?  " 

"  Well,  Uncle  Vincent,"  she  said.  The  Duke  was  afraid  of 
Eachel  because  her  tongue  was  as  sharp  as  his,  but  he  re^ 
spected  her  for  that. 

"  Going  up  to  see  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Eachel.     Should  she  go  ?     Should  she  go  ? 

Suddenly,  arising,  as  it  seemed,  out  of  that  crowd  of  mo-v- 
ing  figures  and  coming  and  standing  there  in  front  of  her, 
was  her  answer. 

Yes,  she  would  go.  All  these  months  of  indetermination 
should  be  ended.  She  should  know,  once  and  for  all,  what 
this  Francis  Breton  meant  to  her,  what  that  other  life  of  herSi 
meant  to  her,  and  so,  in  opposition,  what  Eoddy  meant  to  her. 
She  would,  as  Christopher  would  have  put  it,  grapple  with 
her  Tiger.  .  ,  . 

Instantly,  the  relief,  the  glad,  happy  relief  showed  her  ho\r 
wretched  life  had  been. 

"  What  about  this  war.  Uncle  Vincent  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Well  —  hem  —  well  —  no  need  to  worry  —  I  assure  you 
—  no  need  to  worry  I  " 


ALL  THE  BEAMINSTERS  241 

"  It  seems  a  pity,"  said  Lord  Jolin,  still  looking  furtively 
at  Eachel  and  wishing  that  he  could  carry  her  off  into  some 
other  comer  and  just  ask  her  whether  she  were  really  happy 
or  no. 

"  Why,  John,"  said  the  Duke,  cackling.  "  You'll  have  to 
go  out,  'pon  my  word,  you  will  —  fight  'em,  by  Jove  —  Hal 
ha !     You'd  make  a  fine  soldier,  old  boy." 

Rachel  got  up,  hating  Uncle  Vincent  very  much.  She  put 
her  hand  on  Uncle  John's  fat  arm. 

"  You  may  go.  Uncle  Vincent,"  she  said.  "  We  all  give 
you  leave  —  Uncle  John  we  love  too  much :  if  it's  a  question 
of  bravery  he'd  be  quite  certainly  the  first  of  this  family." 
She  gave  his  arm  a  squeeze. 

Uncle  Vincent  looked  at  her,  smiling  — 

"  Well,"  he  said.  "  None  of  us  would  dream  of  go- 
ing .  .  .  we're  all  much  too  comfortable." 

"  I'll  see  you  before  I  go,  uncle  dear,"  she  whispered  to 
Lord  John.     Then  she  moved  away. 

Slowly  making  her  path  through  the  room  she  left  it  and 
climbed  the  great  stone  staircasa 

m 

Outside  her  grandmother's  door  she  paused;  so  she  had 
always  paused,  and  now,  as  she  waited  there,  all  the  proces- 
sion of  other  days  when  she  had  stood  there  came  before  her. 
Conditions  might  be  changed,  but  her  agitation  was  the  same. 
Never  until  she  died  would  she  open  that  door  without  won- 
dering, in  spite  of  common  sense,  whether  she  might  not  be 
caught  by  some  disaster  before  she  closed  it  again. 

She  went  in  and  found  her  grandmother  sitting  back  in  her 
stiff  chair  and  looking  at  some  patterns  of  bright  silks  that 
lay  on  a  little  table  beside  her. 

A  great  fire  was  burning  and  the  room  seemed  to  Rachel 
intolerably  hot;  she  noticed  at  once  that  what  Uncle  John 
had  said  was  true.  Before  she  had  heard  Rachel's  entrance 
the  Duchess  looked  an  old,  tired  woman.     Her  head  was 


242  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

drooping  a  little  over  the  blue  and  purple  silks ;  she  seemed 
half  asleep. 

But  at  the  sound  of  the  door  she  was  alert ;  when  she  saw 
that  it  was  her  granddaughter  who  stood  there,  tall  and 
stately,  her  large  black  hat  shadowing  her  face,  she  seemed  in 
a  moment  to  be  transformed  with  energy  and  life  —  her  head 
went  up,  her  eyes  flashed,  her  hands  stiffened  on  her  lap. 

"  May  I  come  in  for  a  moment,  grandmother  ? "  Rachel 
said. 

By  the  door  she  had  wondered  —  how  could  she  be  afraid  of 
this  old  sick  woman  ?  Now  as  she  crossed  over  to  the  fire  her 
sternest  self-command  was  summoned  to  control  her  alarm. 
She  was  frightened  by  nothing  but  this  —  here  it  was  indeed 
as  though  there  were  some  spell  that  seized  her. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  —  come  in."  The  Duchess  gave  a 
last  look  at  the  silks  and  then  turned  to  her  granddaughter. 
"  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  it  very  hot  —  I  must  have  a  fire,  you 
know." 

She  had  a  trick  of  drawing  in  her  lower  lip  as  she  spoke,  so 
that  her  words  hissed  a  little  over  her  teeth.  She  did  not  do 
this  with  everybody  and  Rachel  believed  that  it  was  only 
because  she  had  noticed  that  Rachel  as  a  little  girl  had  been 
frightened  of  it  that  she  did  it  now. 

Rachel  sat  down  opposite  her  and  the  heat  of  the  fire  and 
a  scent  of  something  that  had  violets  and  mignonette  in  it  — 
a  scent  that  was  always  in  the  room  —  stifled  her  so  that  her 
head  began  to  swim  and  the  rings  on  the  Duchess's  hand  to 
hypnotize  her. 

"  There's  a  great  party  going  on  downstairs,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  I  know.  John  came  up  for  a  moment  and  told  me 
about  it  —  and  how  are  you  ? " 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,  grandmamma.  Roddy  and  I  have 
been  ever  so  sociable  lately,  given  several  dinner-parties  and 
one  musical  thing." 

"  You're  not  looking  very  well.     Roddy  here  ?  " 

»^  Yes." 


ALL  THE  BEAMIITSTERS  24» 

"Hope  he'll  come  and  see  me  before  he  goes.  Hasn't 
been  to  see  me  much  lately." 

Their  eyes  met.  Rachel  held  her  ground  and  then,  beaten 
as  though  by  a  physical  blow,  lowered  her  gaze. 

"  Oh !  hasn't  he  ?  He's  been  here  a  lot,  I  thought.  He's 
been  very  busy  over  some  horses  that  he's  had  to  go  up  and 
down  to  Seddon  about." 

"  H'm.  Well  —  I  dare  say  he'll  remember  me  again  one 
day  —  so  we're  in  for  a  war  ?  " 

"  Yes.  They  don't  seem  to  think  it  very  serious  though  — s 
Uncle  Eichard  says " 

"  Your  Uncle  Richard  knows  nothing  about  it  —  nothing. 
However,  I  don't  think  anyone  need  be  alarmed." 

There  was  in  this  last  sentence  a  ring  in  the  Duchess's 
voice  that  flung  her  words  out  for  the  nation  to  grasp  at. 
"  Ko  need,  my  good  people,  for  you  to  worry  —  /  have  this  in 
hand." 

"  Well,  I'm  very  glad,"  said  Rachel.  "  It's  such  a  long 
while  since  anything  has  happened  that  it  seems  quite  odd  for 
everyone  to  have  something  to  talk  about  except  dinner- 
parties and  scandal " 

The  old  woman  looked  across  at  her  and  then  very  slowly 
a  smile  rose,  stiffened  between  her  old  dried  lips  and  stayed 
there  — 

"  WTiat  would  you  say,  my  dear,  if  Roddy  thought  it  his 
duty  to  go  and  defend  his  country  ?  " 

There  was,  suddenly,  the  sharp  ring  in  her  voice  that 
Rachel  knew  so  well. 

"  I  know,"  Rachel  said  quietly,  "  that  Roddy  would  do  his 
duty,  and  of  course  I  would  want  him  to  do  that." 

The  Duchess,  with  her  eyes  still  upon  her  granddaughter's 
face,  said  — "  I've  heard  a  good  deal  about  a  young  friend 
of  yours  lately." 

"  Who  is  that,  grandmamma  ?  "  Rachel  said,  and,  in  spite 
of  herself  her  hand  trembled  a  little  against  her  dress. 

"  Nita  Raseley." 


244  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

Eachel  caught  her  breath. 

"•  I  gather  that  you  and  she  haven't  seen  so  much  of  one 
another  lately." 

"  Oh !  I  think  we  have.  We  never  were  great  friends, 
you  know." 

"  Did  she  enjoy  her  time  at  Seddon  ?  A  clever  little  thing. 
I  shouldn't  drop  her,  Rachel,  if  I  were  you." 

"  She  seemed  to  enjoy  Seddon,  grandmamma.  I  must  be 
going,  I'm  afraid,  with  the  patient  Eoddy  waiting  for  me. 
Shall  I  tell  him  to  come  up  ? " 

The  old  hand  struck  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  the  rings 
flashed. 

"  No,  thank  you,  my  dear.  If  he  can't  come  of  his  own 
accord,  I'd  prefer  that  he  had  no  prompting.  There  was  a 
time  when  it  was  otherwise." 

Eachel  got  up.  Their  eyes  met  again,  and  their  hatred  for 
one  another  was  so  settled,  so  historic,  so  traditional  an  affair, 
that  their  glance  now  was  almost  friendly. 

Then  Eachel  bent  down  very  slowly  and  kissed  her  grand- 
mother's cheek.  How  much,  she  wondered,  did  she  know  of 
the  ISTita  affair  ?  Nita's  spite  would,  assuredly,  have  found  a 
happy  ground  in  which  to  plant  its  seed.  Oh!  how  she 
loathed  this  thick  clouded  atmosphere,  this  deceit,  this  deceit ! 
It  seemed  that,  at  every  turn  since  her  marriage,  she  had  been 
dragged  into  an  atmosphere  of  disguise  and  subterfuge  and 
double-dealing. 

Well,  she  was  soon  to  be  done  with  it.  At  the  thought  of 
what  her  grandmother  would  say  did  she  know  of  her  friend- 
ship with  Breton  her  heart  beat  triumphantly.  There  at  any 
rate  was  a  weapon ! 

"  Well,  good-bye,  my  dear.     Come  and  see  me  again  soon." 

"  Yes,  grandmamma  —  good-bye." 

IV 

In  the  carriage  with  Eoddy  she  suddenly  laughed. 

All  those  people,  moving  so  solemnly  with  such  self-im- 


ALL  THE  BEAMmSTERS  245 

portance  about  that  room.  The  Duke,  Lord  Richard,  Aunt 
Adela  .  .  .  Norris,  the  footman.  .  .  . 

O^er  them  all  that  fierce  commanding  portrait.  And  up- 
stairs that  old,  sick  woman.  .  .  . 

And  beyond,  away  from  that  house,  a  war  that  that  old 
woman  and  those  self-important  people  saw  only  as  a  means 
of  increasing  their  own  self-importance. 

It  was  all  as  a  box  of  tin  soldiers  and  a  parcel  of  stiff 
china-faced  dolls  — 

What  were  they  all  about  ?  What  did  they  think  they  were 
all  doing  ?  What,  after  all,  was  she,  Rachel  ?  Had  they  no 
conception  of  the  sawdust  that  they  all  were  beside  this 
real,  swiftly  moving,  death-dealing  War  that  was  suddenly 
amongst  them  ? 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Roddy. 

"  Grandmother  —  grandmother  —  my  dear,  delightful, 
wonderful  grandmother.  To  think  of  her  sitting  all  alone 
up  there  in  her  bedroom  and  all  those  people  moving  about 
downstairs  —  all  so  conscious  of  her.  And  yet  she  does  noth- 
ing —  nothing."  Rachel,  in  her  excitement,  struck  her  knee 
with  her  hand.  "  She  isn't  even  clever,  really  —  She's  never 
in  all  her  life  been  known  to  say  a  witty  thing  —  never.  She 
doesn't  really  know  much  about  politics.  .  .  .  She  just  sits 
there  and  acts  —  That's  what  it's  always  been,  acting  the 
whole  time.  It  it's  effective  to  be  old  and  feeble  she  is  old 
and  feeble  —  if  it's  effective  to  be  fantastic  she  is  fantastic 
—  She  just  sits  still  and  takes  people  in.  Why,  if  she'd 
wanted  she  could  have  been  going  out  all  these  thirty  years, 
I  believe !  " 

"  You're  always  unfair  to  her,  Rachel,"  said  Roddy. 
"  You  know  she  has  ghastly  pain  often  and  often." 

"  Yes.  I'll  give  her  that,"  said  Rachel.  "  She's  brave  — 
brave  as  anything.  And  after  all,"  she  added,  "  she  couldn't 
affect  me  more  if  she  were  the  wittiest  woman  in  the 
world " 

Roddy  yawned  —     "  Damn  dull  party,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VII 

RACHEL  AND  BRETON 

**  We  are  the  Pilgrims,  master ;  we  shall  go 
Always  a  little  farther:  it  may  be 
Beyond  that  last  blue  mountain  barred  with  snow. 
Across  that  angry  or  that  glimmering  sea. 

.  .  .  but  surely  we  are  brave 
Who  make  the  Golden  Journey  to  Samarcand." 

The  Oolden  Journey  to  Samwrcwnd. 

JAH£S    ALBOY    FlECKEB. 


RACHEL  now  awaited  her  meeting  witli  Breton  with 
restless  impatience.  It  should  afford  her,  beyond 
everything,  a  solution.  She  was  young  enough  and  inexperi- 
enced enough  to  make  many  demands  upon  life  —  that  it 
should  be  romantic,  that  it  should,  in  the  issues  that  it  pre- 
sented, be  honest  and  open  and  clear,  that  it  should  allow 
her  to  settle  her  own  place  in  it  without  any  hurt  to  anyone 
else,  that  it  should,  in  fact,  arrange  any  number  of  com- 
promises to  suit  herself  and  that  it  should  nevertheless  be  so 
honest  that  it  would  admit  of  no  compromises  at  all. 

She  approached  life  with  all  the  reckless  boldness  of  one 
who  has  never  come  into  direct  contact  with  it.  Neither  her 
relations  with  her  grandmother  nor  with  Koddy  had  as  yet 
taken  from  her  any  of  her  youngest  nor  simplest  illusions. 
Were  life  drab  and  uninteresting,  why,  then  one  turned 
simply  to  the  place  where  it  promised  colour  and  adventure. 

She  had  not  yet  discovered  that  when  we  go  deliberately  to 
grasp  at  happiness  we  are  eternally  eluded. 

But  in  spite  of  her  desire  for  honesty  she  refused  to  face  the 
actual  meeting  with  Breton.  She  knew  him  so  slightly  as 
Francis  Breton  and  so  intimately  as  an  idea.  What  she  felt 
in  her  heart  wa^.,  that  her  grandmother  had  hoped  to  catch  her 
by  marrying  h&r  to  Koddy  and  that  nothing  could  prove  so 

246 


RACHEL  AND  BEETON  247 

eloquently  that  she  had  not  been  caught  as  her  friendship 
with  Breton. 

"  I  will  show  her  and  I  will  show  Roddy  that  I  am  my  own 
mistress,  free  whatever  they  may  say  or  do." 

Breton  —  seen  dimly  as  a  rebel  against  a  harsh  dominating 
world  —  was  the  figure  of  all  romance  and  freedom.  "  Roddy 
doesn't  care  what  happens  to  me.  He'll  do  anything  grand- 
mother tells  him  to.  .  .  ." 

She  was  now  out  to  attack  the  Beaminster  fortress;  she 
did  not  as  yet  know  that  half  of  her  was  urgent  for  its  de- 
fence. 

n 

When  the  afternoon  arrived  she  took  a  cab  and  was  driven 
to  Saxton  Square.  She  mounted  the  stairs,  knocked  on  the 
door  and  was  admitted  by  his  ugly  manservant. 

"  Is  Mr.  Breton  at  home  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  he  answered  and  smiled ;  she  disliked 
his  smile  and  before  she  passed  into  the  room  had  a  moment 
of  wild  unreasoning  panic  when  she  wished  that  she  were  not 
there,  when  Roddy's  face  came  to  her,  kind  and  loving  and 
homely. 

She  stepped  forward  into  the  room,  heard  the  door  close 
behind  her  and  felt  rather  than  saw  him  as  he  came  forward 
to  greet  her. 

Then  she  heard  him  say  —  • 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  I  was  so  afraid  lest  some- 
thing should  stop  you." 

His  windows,  although  only  on  the  first  floor,  had  a  wide 
sweeping  view ;  a  world  of  chimneys  and  towers  glittering  now 
beneath  the  sinking  sun. 

His  room  was  simple  and  had  the  effect  of  cleanly  empti- 
ness ;  a  table  arranged  for  tea,  two  rather  faded  arm-chairs,  a 
dark  green  carpet,  a  book-case,  two  large  framed  photographs 
on  the  walls,  one  of  some  street  in  Bomtny,  the  other  of  the 
Niagara  Falls. 


248  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

The  sunshine  lit  the  bare  room  and  their  faces  and  she  was 
Buddenly  eomfortahle  and  at  ease. 

He  drew  one  of  the  easy  chairs  forward  to  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Sit  down  in  the  sun ;  Marks  will  bring  the  tea  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

She  sat  back  in  the  chair  and  looked  out  on  to  the  shining 
roofs  and  towers,  not  glancing  towards  him,  but  acutely 
aware  of  him,  of  all  his  movements.  He  sat  down  upon  the 
broad  window-seat  near  her  and  looked  at  her. 

She  knew  that  she  had  never  been  conscious,  physically, 
of  anyone  before.  Roddy's  clumsy  hands  and  rather  awk- 
ward body  had  always  simply  belonged  to  Eoddy  and  stayed 
at  that ;  now  she  felt  as  if  Francis  Breton's  hand,  close,  as  she 
knew,  to  hers,  was  joined  to  her  by  a  running  current  of 
attraction. 

Although  he  was  not  touching  her,  it  was  as  though  she 
were  chained  to  him.  If  he  moved  she  felt  that  she  must 
move  with  him  and  every  motion  that  he  made  seemed  to 
rouse  some  response  in  her. 

She  was  aware,  of  course,  as  she  was  always  aware  with 
him,  of  the  way  that  intimacy  between  them  had  moved  since 
their  last  meeting.  All  her  romantic  evocation  of  life  as  she 
wanted  it  to  be  helped  her  to  this.  It  was  as  though  she  said 
to  herself,  "  Here  at  least  is  my  true  self  free  and  dominant. 
I  must  make  the  most  of  it " —  and  yet,  with  that,  something 
seemed  to  warn  her  that  freedom  too  easily  obtained  carried 
at  its  heart  disappointment.  The  ugly  manservant  brought 
in  tea  and  then  disappeared.  Breton  moved  about,  waited 
upon  her,  then  sat  down  closer  to  her,  leaning  forward  and 
looking  into  her  eyes. 

It  was  part  of  his  temperament  that  he  should  take  her 
coming  to  him  as  an  instant  acknowledgment  of  the  complete 
fulfilment  of  his  wishes.  He  always  saw  life  as  the  very 
rosiest  of  his  dreams  until  it  woke  him  to  reality.  He  was 
ruled  completely  by  the  mood  of  the  moment,  and  his  one  emo- 


RACHEL  AND  BRETON  249 

tion  now  was  that  Rachel  was  divinely  intended  for  him  alone 
vi  all  human  beings  — 

But  he  could  not  wait.  .  .  .  He  knew,  by  this  time,  tliat 
reflection  was  always  a  period  of  disappointment.  He  was 
unhappily  made  in  that  he  yielded  to  his  impulses  of  regret 
as  eagerly  as  to  his  impulses  of  anticipation  —  One  mood 
followed  so  swiftly  upon  another  that  collision  might  seem  in- 
evitable. 

They  were,  both  of  them,  young  enough  to  see  life  as  some- 
thing that  would  inevitably,  in  a  short  time,  condemn  them 
both  to  years  of  sterile  monotony.  Rachel  indeed  felt  that 
she  was  already  caught.  .  .  . 

They  must,  both  of  them,  therefore,  make  the  best  of  their 
time. 

"  I  was  so  afraid,"  he  repeated  again,  "  lest  something 
should  have  stopped  you." 

"  I  would  have  asked  you  to  come  to  us,  only  I'm  afraid 
that  my  husband  still " 

"  Oh !     I  quite  understand." 

"  It's  natural  —  Roddy's  like  that.  If  he  wants  to  do  a 
thing  he  doesn't  care  for  anybody  and  just  does  it.  But  if 
nothing  makes  him  especially  want  to  do  it,  then  he  just 
takes  other  people's  opinions.  Now  he  might  ask  you  sud- 
denly to  come  and  see  us  —  simply  because  he  took  it  into 
his  head.  Then  nobody  could  stop  him.  .  ,  ,  He's  very 
obstinate." 

She  was  rather  surprised  at  herself  for  talking  about 
Roddy.  She  had  a  curious  feeling  about  him  as  though  she 
were  going  on  a  journey  and  had  just  said  good-bye  to  him 
and  had  a  rather  desolate  choke  iu  her  throat  because  she 
wouldn't  see  him  again  for  so  long. 

"  Oh !  but  I'm  glad  you've  come !  If  you  knew  the  times 
«3Lnd  times  when  I've  imagined  this  meeting  —  thought  about 
it,  pictured " 

She  saw  that  his  hand  was  trembling  on  the  window 
ledge  — 


250  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  come,  perhaps  —  But  I  don't  know. 
I've  felt  so  indignant  at  the  way  that  grandmother  is  treating 
you.     I  wanted  to  show  you  that  I  was  indignant.  .  .  ." 

"  You  don't  know,"  he  said,  "  what  a  help  you've  been  to 
me  already  —  You  showed  me  the  very  first  time  that  we  met 
that  you  did  sympathize.  .  ,  ." 

His  voioe  was  tender,  partly  because  her  presence  moved 
him  so  deeply  and  partly  because  the  sympathy  of  anyone 
about  his  own  affairs  made  him  instantly  full  of  sorrow  for 
himself  —  When  anyone  said  that  they  thought  that  he  had 
been  badly  treated  he  always  felt  with  an  air  of  surprised 
discovery ;     "  By  Jove,  I  have  been  having  a  bad  time ! " 

"  Yes  —  Wasn't  it  strange,  that  first  meeting  in  Miss 
Rand's  room  ?  We  seem  to  have  known  one  another  all  our 
lives." 

She  looked  at  him.  "  That  you  should  hate  grandmamma 
so,"  she  said,  "  was  a  great  thing  to  me.  I'd  been  all  alone  — 
fighting  her  —  for  so  long." 

Rachel  felt,  in  the  glow  of  the  occasion,  that,  all  her  days, 
there  had  been  active  constant  war-to-the-knife  in  the  Port- 
land Place  house. 

"  She's  been  the  curse  of  my  life,"  he  said  bitterly.  "  Al- 
ways keeping  me  down,  making  me  unable  to  do  myself 
justice.     Why  should  she  hate  me  so  ?  " 

"  She  hates  us,"  cried  Rachel,  "  because  we're  both  deter- 
mined to  be  free.  We  wouldn't  have  our  lives  ruled  for  us. 
She  wants  everyone  to  be  under  her  in  everything." 

They  glowed  together,  very  close  to  one  another  now,  in 
a  glorious  assertion  of  rebellious  independence.  He  put  his 
hand  upon  the  back  of  her  chair  — 

"  Now,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling,  "  now  that  we've  got 
to  know  one  another,  you  won't  go  back  on  it,  will  you  ?  If 
I  couldn't  feel  that  you  were  behind  me,  after  being  so  en- 
couraged, it  would  be  terrible  for  me  —  worse  than  anything's 
ever  been  for  me." 

"Yqu  needn't  be  afraid,"  she  said,  not  looking  at  him, 


EACHEL  AND  BRETON"  251 

but  tremendously  conscious  of  his  hand  that  now  touched  her 
dress.  Then  there  was  a  long  and  very  difficult  silence  dur- 
ing which  events  seemed  to  move  with  terrific  impetus. 

She  was  overwhelmed  by  a  multitude  of  emotions.  She 
was  past  analysis  of  regret  or  anticipation.  Somewhere,  very 
far  away,  there  was  Roddy,  and  somewhere  —  also  very  far 
away  —  there  was  her  grandmother,  but,  for  herself,  she  could 
only  feel  that  she  was  very  lonely,  that  nobody  cared  about 
her  except  Breton  and  that  nobody  cared  about  him  except 
herself  —  and  that  she  wanted  urgently  to  be  comforted  and 
that  he  himself  needed  comfort  from  her. 

She  knew  that  if  she  were  not  very  strong-minded  and 
resolute  she  would  cry ;  she  could  feel  the  tears  burning  her 
eyes. 

"  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  come  —  Oh !  it's  all  so  difficult 

—  with  grandmother  —  and  everything  —  I  thought  I  could 

—  could  manage  things,  but  I  can't  —  We  oughtn't  —  I 
wanted  to  do  what  was  best.  I  —  I  didn't  know  — 
You " 

Then  the  tears  came  —  She  tried  desperately  to  stop  them, 
then  they  came  rushing ;  she  buried  her  head  in  her  hands  and 
abandoned  herself  to  weeping  that  was  partly  sorrow  for  her- 
self and  partly  sorrow  for  Breton  and  partly,  in  the  strangest 
Way,  sorrow  for  Roddy. 

He  was  on  his  knees  by  her  chair,  had  his  arm  about  her, 
was  crying: 

"  Oh !  Rachel  —  Rachel  —  Rachel  —  I  love  you.     I  love 

you  —  Don't  cry  —  Don't — -Rachel "     He  kissed  her 

again  and  again  and  she  clung  to  him  like  a  frightened  child. 

in 

After  a  time  her  crying  ceased,  she  got  up  from  the  chair, 
moving  gently  out  of  his  embrace,  and  then  went  to  the 
looking-glass  above  the  fireplace  and  stood  there  wiping  her 
eyes. 

Then,  smiling,  she  looked  back  at  him  —  He  was  standing 


252  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

in  front  of  the  window  and  behind  him  the  reflection,  from 
the  departed  sun,  flooded  the  town  with  gold.  He  seemed  a 
man  transformed,  gazing  upon  her  with  an  ecstasy  of  triumph^ 
exaltation,  happiness. 

"  My  dear  —  my  dear  —  Oh !  how  glorious  you  are !  " 

But  she  did  not  move. 

He  stirred  impatiently,  and  then,  looking  at  her  with  ador- 
ing eyes,  he  whispered,  "  Oh !  my  dear !  but  I  love  you !  " 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  her  eyes,  large  and  frightened,  ap- 
pealingly  upon  him  — 

He  smiled  at  her,  his  eyes  laughing. 

"  Yes,  Francis  —  let  me  —  let  me.  !N"ow  while  I  can  still 
see  what  I  ought  to  do." 

"  There's  only  one  thing  that  you  ought  to  do.  You  be- 
long to  me  now."  She  plucked  nervously  with  her  hands  one 
against  the  other. 

"  Francis,  let  me  go  —  please  —  please "     He  saw 

then  that  she  was  unhappy  and  the  laughter  died  from  his 
eyes.  His  voice,  fallen  from  its  happiness,  was  almost  harsh, 
as  he  replied  — 

"  You  know  we  love  one  anoliier,  have  loved  one  another 
ever  since  that  day  when  we  met  in  Miss  Rand's  rooms? 
You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  You  knew  it  when  you  came 
to  these  rooms  to-day." 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  come."  Her  voice  had  gathered 
strength.  "  It's  only  because  I  realize  now  what  you  are 
to  me  that  I  want  to  go.  I  thought  I  was  so  strong,  that  I 
could  be  fair  to  Eoddy  and  to  you  too  ...  I  didn't 
know " 

"  Then  stay  —  stay  — "  he  whispered  urgently.  "  It's  a 
thing  that  you've  got  to  face  anyhow  —  We  can't  stay  apart, 
you  and  I,  now.  We  can  try,  but  you  know  —  you  know  as 
well  as  I  —  that  we  can't  do  it." 

"  We  must  —  That's  what  I  meant  before.  That's  why  I 
must  go  now,  because  soon  I  shan't  be  strong  enough.  But 
we've  got  to  part  —  we've  got  to." 


RACHEL  AOTD  BRETON  253 

"  Oil,  this  is  absurd,"  he  cried.  "  We're  human  beings,  not 
figures  to  hang  a  theory  on  —  Now  just  as  we  realize  what  we 
are  to  one  another " 

"  Yes,  because  of  that,"  she  broke  in  swiftly,  urgently. 
*'  You  know  that  I  love  you  —  I  know  that  you  love  me. 
We've  got  that  knowledge  that  nothing  can  take  away  from 
us  —  and  we've  got  the  love  —  nothing  can  touch  it.  But  my 
duty  is  with  Roddy." 

"  You  knew  that,"  he  said,  "  when  you  came  here  to-day." 

Her  face  flamed  — "  That's  not  fair  of  you,  Francis." 

"  No,  I  beg  your  pardon.     It  isn't "     He  suddenly 

came  to  her,  caught  her  and  kissed  her,  holding  her  with  his 
arm  close  to  him,  murmuring  in  her  ear.  At  first  she  had 
struggled,  then  she  lay  absolutely  still  against  him,  making  no 
response. 

He  felt  her  passive  against  his  beating  heart.  He  re- 
leased her  and  watched  her  as  she  went  across  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  into  the  darkening  city. 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  said  roughly,  "  I  love  you.  There's  no 
talk  about  it  or  anything  else.     You  belong  to  vfie." 

"  I  belong  to  Roddy,"  she  answered  quietly.  "  It's  all 
quite  clear.  My  duty  is  to  him  until  .  .  .  unless,  life  with 
him  becomes  impossible.  I've  got  absolutely  to  do  my  best 
and  while  I'm  doing  that  you've  got  to  help  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said,  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"  Help  me  by  our  not  meetiag,  by  our  not  writing,  by  our 
doing  nothing  —  nothing " 

"  No  —  No,"  he  answered  her,  his  eyes  set  apon  her. 

"  You  don't  get  me  any  other  way.  Francis,  don't  you  see 
that  we're  not  the  sort  of  people,  either  of  us,  to  put  up  with 
the  deceits,  the  trickeries,  the  lies  that  the  other  thing  means  ? 
Some  people  might  —  lots  of  people  do,  I  suppose  —  but  we're 
not  built  that  way.  We're  idealists  —  We  aren't  made  to 
stand  quietly  and  see  all  the  quality  of  the  thing  vanish  before 
our  eyes  —  just  to  take  the  husk  when  we've  known  what  the 
kernel  was  like. 


254  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  Besides,  it  isn't  as  though  I  hated  Roddy.  If  I  did  I'd 
go  off  with  you  now,  in  a  minute  if  you  wanted  me,  although 
even  then  it  would  be  a  hopeless  thing  for  vs  to  do.  But  I'm 
very  fond  of  Roddy.  I'm  not  in  love  with  him  —  I  never 
have  been  —  I  told  him  from  the  first  —  But  I'm  going  to 
do  my  best  by  him." 

"  Why  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  here  because  I  was  driven  towards  you.  I  wanted 
to  hear  you  say  that  you  loved  me  —  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that 
I  loved  you.  We've  both  of  us  said  it.  We  know  it  now  — 
and  we've  got  to  keep  it,  the  most  precious  thing  in  the  world. 

"  But  we  should  soon  hate  one  another  if  we  destroyed  one 
another's  ideals.  Eor  many  people  it  wouldn't  matter  —  Eor 
us,  weak  as  we  are,  it  matters  everything." 

"  All  this  talk,"  he  said.  "  I'm  a  man.  I'm  her©  to  love 
you,  not  to  talk  about  it.  I've  got  you  and  I'm  going  to  keep 
you." 

"  You  haven't  got  me,"  she  cried.  "  You've  got  a  bit  of 
me.  There'll  be  times  when  I'm  away  from  you  when  I 
shall  think  that  you've  got  all  of  me.  But  you  haven't  —  no 
one's  got  all  of  me.  .  .  . 

"  And  I  haven't  got  you  either  —  You  think  now  for  the 
moment  that  it  is  so  —  But  I  know  what  it  would  be  if  we 
were  hiding  about  on  the  Continent  or  secretly  meeting  here 
in  London  —  That's  not  for  us,  Francis." 

"  I've  got  you,"  he  repeated.  "  I'm  not  going  to  wait  any 
longer " 

"  It's  the  only  way  you'll  ever  have  me,"  she  answered, 
"  by  letting  me  do  my  duty  to  Roddy  —  I  promise  you  that. 
If  ever  life  is  impossible  —  if  it's  ever  better  for  both  of  us 
that  I  should  go,  I'll  come  to  you  —  But  I  shall  tell  him 
first." 

"  Tell  him  I     But  he  won't  let  you  go.'* 

**  He  won't  stop  me  —  if  it  comes  to  that." 

He  pleaded  with  her  then,  telling  her  about  his  life,  ita 


RACHEL  AND  BRETON  255 

loneliness,  his  unhappiness,  how  impossible  it  would  be  now 
without  her. 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  cried,  "  that  grandmother  would 
be  delighted  if  we  went  off?  Both  of  us  done  for  —  you 
never  able  to  return  again  .  .  .  Ah  I  no !  Eor  all  of  us,  for 
every  reason,  it's  not  to  be." 

"  I  won't  let  you  go  —  I've  got  you.     I'll  keep  you." 

"You  can't,  Francis " 

"  I  can  and  I  will " 

Then  looking  up,  catching  a  vision  of  her  framed  in  the 
window  with  the  lighted  city  behind  her,  he  saw  in  her  eyes 
how  unattainable  she  might  be.  .  ,  . 

He  had,  he  had  always  had,  his  ideals.  There  was  a 
long  silence  between  them,  then  he  bowed  his  head. 

"  You  shall  do  as  you  will  —  anything  with  me  that  you 
will." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  whispered,  "  I  love  you  for  that." 

Then  hurriedly,  moving  as  though  she  feared  her  own  weak- 
ness, she  went  to  put  on  her  wraps  —  He  came  to  her. 

"  Let  me  write  —  let  me." 

"  No  —  Better  not" 

"  Just  a  line  —  Nothing  that  any  ordinary  person  — — " 

"  No,  we  mustn't,  Francis." 

He  put  her  furs  about  her  neck,  then  his  hand  rested  on  her 
shoulder.     Her  head  fell  back. 

"  Once  more  " —  she  said.  He  kissed  her  throat,  then  her 
eyes,  then  their  lips  met. 

"  Stay,"  he  whispered,  "  stay  " —  Very  slowly  she  drew 
eway  from  him,  smiled  at  him  once,  and  was  gona 


CHAPTER  Vin 

CHRISTOPHER'S  DAY 

**I  judge  more  than  I  used  to  —  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  earned 
the  right.  One  can't  judge  till  one  is  forty;  before  that  we  are  too 
eager,  too  hard,  too  cruel,  and  in  addition  too  ignorant." 

Henby  James. 


THE  War  had  the  City  in  its  grip.  There  was  now, 
during  these  early  weeks  of  November,  no  other  thought, 
no  other  anxiety,  no  other  interest.  The  shock  of  its  reality 
came  most  severely  upon  those  whose  lives  had  been  most  un- 
real. Here,  in  the  midst  of  their  dining  and  their  dancing, 
was  the  sure  fact  that  many  whom  they  knew  and  with  whom 
they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  playing  might  now,  at  any  mo- 
ment, find  death  — 

Here  was  a  reality  against  which  there  was  no  argument, 
and  against  the  harshness  of  it  music  screamed  and  food  was 
uninteresting. 

During  that  first  month  of  that  war,  so  new  a  thing  was  the 
horrid  grimness  of  it,  that  hysteria  waa  abroad,  life  was  two- 
pence coloured.  For  everyone  now  it  was  the  question  — 
"  What  might  they  do  ?  " 

Something  to  help,  something  to  ease  that  biting  truth  — 
*'  Your  life  has  been  the  most  utterly  useless  business  —  no 
purpose,  no  strength,  no  unselfishness  from  first  to  last  — 
what  now  ? " 

Christopher's  life  had  not  been  useless  and  he  knew  it. 
The  reality  of  it  had  never  been  in  doubt  and  death  —  the 
haphazard  surprise  of  it  and  the  pathos  and  melodrama  and 
sometimes  drab  monotony  of  it  —  had  been  his  companion 
for  many  years. 

Christopher,  although  he  had  been  a  hard  worker  from  his 
childhood,  had  always  taken  life  lightly.     He  loved  the  gifta 

250 


CHRISTOPHER'S  DAY  257 

of  this  world  —  food  and  amusement  and  exercise  and  pleaar 
ant  company.  He  loved,  also,  certain  people  whose  lives  were 
of  immense  concern  to  him.  He  also  believed  in  a  quite 
traditional  God  about  Whom  he  had  never  argued,  but  Whose 
definite  particular  existence  was  as  certain  to  him  as  his  own. 

He  had  faults  that  he  tried  to  cure  —  his  temper  —  his 
pleasure  in  food  and  wine. 

He  had  three  great  motives  in  his  life  —  His  love  of  God, 
his  love  of  his  friends  and  his  love  of  his  work.  He  hated 
hypocrites,  mean  persons,  cruel  persons,  anyone  who  showed 
cowardice  or  deceit  or  arrogance.  He  was  dogmatic  and 
therefore  disliked  anyone  else  to  be  so.  He  was  humbla 
about  his  work,  but  not  humble  about  his  position  in  the 
world,  which  he  thought,  quite  frankly,  a  very  good  one. 

His  interest  in  his  especial  friends  was  compounded  of 
his  love  for  them  and  also  of  his  curiosity  about  them,  and  he 
always  loved  someone  the  more  if  he  or  she  gave  him  the 
opportunity  to  practise  his  inquisitiveness  upon  them. 

After  Rachel  Seddon  he  cared  more,  perhaps,  for  Francis 
Breton  than  anyone  in  the  world.  He  had  also  of  late  been 
interested  in  Roddy,  who  was  a  far  better  fellow  than  he  had 
expected. 

One  puzzle,  meanwhile,  obstinately  and  continually  beset 
him.  What  had  happened  to  Breton  during  this  last  year  ? 
Something,  or  in  surer  probability  someone,  had  been  behind 
him.  Christopher  might  have  flattered  himself  that  he  had 
been  the  influence,  but  he  knew  that,  if  that  had  been  so, 
Breton's  attitude  to  him  would  have  implied  it.  Breton  was 
fond  of  him,  but  did  not  owe  that  to  him.     Who  then  was  it  ? 

On  one  of  these  IsTovember  days  he  invited  a  friend  and 
Breton  to  luncheon  together. 

Christopher's  geniality  and  the  supreme  importance  of  the 
war  over  everything  else  helped  amiability.  Christopher's 
little  house  in  Harley  Street  showed,  beyond  its  consulting- 
room,  a  cheerful  Philistine  appreciation  of  comfort  and  love. 
There  was  old  silver,  there  were  old  prints,  sofas,  soft  carpets, 


258  THE  DUCHESS  01  WEEXE 

book-cases,  whose  glass  coverings  were  more  important  than 
their  contents.  Also  a  luncheon  that  was  the  most  artistic 
thing  that  the  house  contained,  save  only  the  wine. 

At  the  side  of  the  round  gleaming  table  Christopher  sat 
smiling,  and  soon  Breton  told  the  friend  about  India  and  the 
friend  told  Breton  about  Africa. 

Meanwhile  Christopher  watched  Breton.  He  knew  Breton, 
very  well  and,  in  the  old  days,  he  would  have  said  that  that 
nervous  excitement  that  the  man  sometimes  betrayed  meant 
that  he  was  on  the  edge  of  some  most  foolish  action. 

He  knew  that  light  in  the  eyes,  that  excited  voice,  that 
restlessness  —  these  things  had  meant  that  Breton's  self-con- 
trol was  about  to  break. 

To-day  there  were  all  these  signs,  and  Christopher  knew 
that  after  luncheon  Breton  would  escape  him. 

Breton  did  escape  him,  went  off  somewhere  in  a  hurry; 
no,  Christophxsr  could  not  drive  him  —  he  was  going  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

Whilst  Christopher  drove,  first  down  to  Eaton  Square, 
then  back  to  104  Portland  Place,  he  was  wondering  about 
Breton.  .  ,  . 


It  seemed  that,  on  this  afternoon,  he  was  unduly  sensitive 
to  impression.  The  house  struck  him  with  a  chill,  deserted 
aid.  There  seemed  to  be  no  one  about  as  ISTorris  led  him  up 
to  the  Duchess's  rooms,  the  old  portraits  grinned  at  him,  as 
though  they  would  have  him  to  know  that,  very  soon,  the 
house  would  be  once  more  in  their  possession  and  Beaminsters 
dead  and  gone  be  of  more  importance  than  Beaminsters  alive. 

At  any  rate  it  was  a  cold  November  day,  and  always  now 
the  streets  seemed  to  echo  with  newsboys  crying  out  editions. 

Even  through  these  stone  walls,  those  cries  could  penetrate ; 
he  could  hear  one  as  he  climbed  the  stairs. 

The  Duchess,  looking  peaked  and  shrivelled,  received  him 
357ith  an  eagerness  that  showed  that  she  was  longing  for  com- 


CHRISTOPHER'S  DAY  259 

pany.  The  room  was  close,  Lut,  in  spite  of  that,  now  and 
again  she  shivered  a  little. 

As  he  sat  opposite  her  the  glance  that  she  flung  him  was 
almost  pathetic  —  struggling  to  maintain  her  pride,  but  show- 
ing, too,  that  she  might  now,  in  his  company,  a  little  relax 
that  great  effort. 

"  I'm  not  so  well,"  she  said ;  "  I've  slept  badly." 

*'  I'm  sorry  for  that,"  he  said ;  "  what's  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  It's  this  war,"  she  said,  taking  her  eyes  away  from  his 
face.  "  This  war  —  I  don't  think  I've  ever  felt  anything 
before,  but  this  —  Oh !  I'm  old,  old  at  last,"  she  said  almost 
savagely. 

"  Everybody's  feeling  it  just  now,"  Christopher  answered 
her  quietly.  "  I  suppose  I'm  as  level-headed  as  most  people, 
but  even  I  have  been  imagining  things  to-day  —  Nerves, 
simply  nerves " 

"  Nonsense,"  she  answered  him  — "  Don't  tell  me,  Christo- 
pher.    What  have  I  ever  had  to  do  with  nerves  ?  " 

"Wait  a  little.  All  we  want  is  to  get  used  to  War:  it'ii 
a  new  experience  for  all  of  us " 

She  laughed  sharply  — 

"  It's  ludicrous,  but  really  you'd  think  if  you  studied  my 
family  that  I  was  responsible  for  the  whole  thing.  It's  posi- 
tively as  though  I'd  made  some  huge  blunder  which  they 
would  do  their  best  to  excuse.  Adela,  John  —  I'm  now  to 
them  an  old  sick  woman  who's  got  to  be  kept  quiet  and 
away  from  worry.  They  wouldn't  have  dared  let  me  see  that 
six  months  ago  — " 

Her  voice  was  trembling. 

She  went  on  again,  more  quietly.  "  Every  hour  now  one 
hears  some  horrible  thing.  This  morning  that  young  Dick 
Staveling  dead,  shot  in  some  skirmish  or  another  —  Fine  boy 
he  was.  They're  all  going  out,  one  after  the  other  —  Not 
useless  idiots  who  aren't  wanted  here  like  John  or  Vincent  •— 
but  boys,  boys  like  —  like  Roddy." 

Again  her  voice  trembled. 


260  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

For  the  first  time  in  his  knowledge  of  her  some  pity  for  hef 
etirred  in  him,  for  the  first  time  in  her  knowledge  of  him  shs 
definitely  looked  to  him  with  some  appeal. 

"  Eoddy  came  to  see  me  yesterday,"  she  said. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Christopher. 

"  He  had  not  been  so  often  as  he  used  —  I  told  him  so ;  he 
made  some  feeble  apology,  but  I  can  see  that  he  will  not  come 
again  so  often " 

He  would  have  interrupted  her,  but  she  went  on  — "  He's 
not  happy,  but  he  loves  her  madly  —  madly.  He  did  not  tell 
me  so,  but  I  could  see  that.  That  was  something  I  had  never 
reckoned  on." 

"  You  prefer,"  Christopher  said  sharply,  "  to  imagine  that 
he  is  not  happy.  I  know,  unfortunately,  what  your  feeling  is 
about  Rachel.  Fond  of  him  though  you  are  you'd  prefer  that 
he  was  unhappy  with  her." 

"  I  know  that  he  is  unhappy.  He  would  not  care  for  her 
so  much  if  she  returned  it.  I  know  Eoddy.  But  she's  clever 
enough "     She  broke  off. 

"  If  Eoddy  were  to  go  out  to  South  Africa,"  she  said,  "  I 
think  I  would  kill  Eachel  —  then  die  happy " 

^'  Forgive  me,"  Christopher  said,  "  but  this  is  sheer  melo- 
drama. Eachel  is  devoted  to  Eoddy  and  Eoddy  to  Eachel. 
I've  the  best  means  for  knowing " 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  saw  her  mouth  curve  with  that  smile 
that  was  always  the  wickedest  thing  about  her.  He  had  seen 
it  on  many  occasions  and  it  always  meant  that,  then,  in  her 
heart  there  was  something  cruel  or  remorseless. 

It  gave  her  now  an  elfin  look  so  that,  amongst  the  absurd 
furniture  of  the  room,  she  took  her  place  as  some  old  witch 
might  take  hers  amongst  the  paraphernalia  of  her  incanta- 
tions—  her  cauldron,  her  bones,  her  noxious  herbs. 

"  That  shows,  Christopher  my  friend,  that  you  know  very 
little.     I've  a  piece  of  news  that  will  surprise  you." 

He  said  nothing,  but,  in  his  heart,  made  ready  for  some 
blow. 


CHRISTOPHER'S  DAY  261 

'*  What  would  you  say  if  our  Rachel  —  your  Rachel  and  my 
Rachel  —  had  found  a  new  friend  in  my  worthy,  most  admir- 
able grandson,  Francis?  " 

"  Rachel  —  Rachel  and  Breton  ?  " 

The  Duchess  watched  him  with  amusement.  "  Exactly.  I 
have  the  surest  information " 

"  What  does  your  —  information  —  say  ?  " 

He  hated  her  at  that  moment  as  he  had  never  hated  her 
before. 

"  It  says  —  and  I  know  that  it  is  true  —  that  for  more  than 
a  year  now  they  have  been  meeting  and  corresponding  —  The 
other  day  Rachel  went  to  tea  with  him  —  alone.  Was  with 
him  alone  for  some  time  —  I'm  sure  that  Roddy  knows  noth- 
ing of  this " 

"  It's  impossible  —  impossible !  Rachel  is  the  soul  of 
honour " 

"  I  know  that  you  have  always  thought  so.  But  what 
more  likely?  Their  feeling  about  myself  would,  alone,  be 
enough.  .  .  ." 

But  he  would  not  let  her  see  how  hardly  he  was  taking  it. 
He  deprived  her  of  her  triumph,  did  not  even  question  her 
as  to  what  she  would  do  with  it,  turned  the  conversation  into 
other  channels,  and  left  her  at  last  —  seeming  there,  amongst 
her  candles,  with  her  nose  and  thin  hands,  like  some  old  bird 
of  most  evil  omen. 

m 

But  for  him  there  was  to  be  no  more  peace. 

It  was  now  about  four  o'clock  and  already  the  dusk  was 
closing  in  about  the  town.  He  decided  that  he  would  go  and 
see  whether  Rachel  were  in. 

He  was  determined  that  he  would  ask  Rachel  nothing; 
if  she  wished  to  speak  to  him  he  would  help  her,  but  it  must 
be  of  her  own  free  will  —  that  was  the  only  way  at  present. 

Eor  how  much  was  the  Duchess's  malignity  responsible? 
What  exactly  did  she  know  ?     What  did  she  intend  to  do  ? 


262  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

Oddly  enough,  for  a  long  time  past  some  subconscious 
part  of  him  had  linked  Eachel  and  Breton  together,  perhaps 
because  they  were  the  two  persons  in  all  the  world  for  whom 
he  most  cared,  perhaps  because  he  had  always  known  in 
both  of  them  that  rebellious  discontent  so  unlike  that  Bea- 
minster  acquiescence. 

As  he  drove  through  the  evening  streets,  he  felt  that  never, 
until  now,  had  he  known  how  dearly  he  loved  Rachel.  In 
his  mind  there  was  no  judgment  of  her,  only  a  sense  of  her. 
peril ;  if  she  would  speak  to  him !  .  .  . 

When  he  asked  at  the  door  of  the  flat  for  Lady  Seddon  he 
was  told  that  she  was  out. 

"  Sir  Roderick  is  at  home,  sir."     He  would  see  Roddy. 

Roddy  was  sitting  in  the  little  box-like  room  known  as  the 
smoking-room,  poring  over  a  war  map.  About  the  map  little 
flags  were  dotted ;  he  had  two  in  his  hand  and,  with  one  hand 
lifted,  was  hesitating  as  to  their  position. 

"  That  was  a  damned  bad  mess "     Christopher  heard 

ihim  say  as  he  came  in. 

At  the  sound  of  the  door  Roddy  looked  up,  straightened 
himself,  and  then  came  forward. 

"  Hallo !  Christopher,"  he  said.  "Delighted.  Splendid! 
Rachel's  out,  but  she  said  she'd  be  back  to  tea." 

He  was  not  looking  well  —  fat,  his  cheeks  pale  and  puffy, 
lines  beneath  his  eyes. 

"  I'm  jolly  glad  you've  come,"  he  said.  He  drew  two  arm- 
chairs to  the  fire  and  they  sat  down. 

Roddy  then  talked  a  great  deal.  He  was  always  a  little 
nervous  with  Christopher  because  lie  was  well  aware  that  the 
doctor  had  disapproved  of  His  marriage. 

Christopher  had  lately  shown  him  that  he  liked  him,  but 
still  Roddy  was  not  at  his  ease.  He  talked  of  the  war,  then 
of  golf,  then  polo,  then  horses,  Seddon  Court  —  abruptly  he 
stopped  and  sat  there  gazing  moodily  into  the  fire. 

"You're  ixot  looking  well,  Seddon,"  Christopher  said 
quietly. 


CHRISTOPHEE'S  DAY  263 

"  I'm  not  very  —  Nobody's  at  their  liveliest  just  now  with 
fellers  one  knows  droppin'  out  any  minute.  .  .  .  One  feels 
a  bit  of  a  worm  keepin'  out  of  it  all  —  skunkin'  rather " 

Moodily  he  sat  there,  his  head  hanging,  dejected  as  Christo- 
pher had  never  seen  him  before. 

Suddenly  he  said  — "  That  ain't  quite  the  truth,  Doctor. 
I  am  a  bit  worried " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  Christopher  said,  putting  his  hand  on  the 
other's  knee  — "  If  there's  anything  in  the  world  I  can  do  for 
you,  tell  me." 

"  Thank  you.  You're  a  brick.  I'm  damned  unhappy, 
Christopher,  and  that's  the  truth " 

"  Rachel "  said  Christopher. 

"  Yes  —  Rachel.  I  got  to  talk  to  somebody.  I've  been 
goin'  along  on  my  own  now  for  months  and  I  know  you're 
fond  of  her " 

"  I  am,"  said  Christopher,  "  more  than  of  anyone  in  the 
world " 

"  I  know.  That's  how  I  can  talk  to  you.  I  wouldn't  have 
you  think  I'm  complainin'  of  her.  I'm  gettin'  nothin'  but 
what  I  asked  for,  you  know.  But  it's  just  this.  When  she 
took  me  she  never  said  she  loved  me,  in  fact  she  said  she 
didn't,  but  I  thought  that  it  wouldn't  matter  —  all  you  wanted 
in  marriage  was  just  to  be  pals  and  show  up  about  the  town 
together  and  treat  one  another  honourably.  Well,"  said 
Roddy,  taking  now  a  melancholy  interest  in  his  discoveries 
concerning  himself,  "  damn  it  all,  if  I  haven't  rotted  the 
"bargain  by  f allin'  in  love  vdth  her.  Jove !  Why,  I  hadn't  a 
ghost's  guess  at  what  Love  meant  before  Rachel  came  along. 
Of  course  it  isn't  her  fault.  You  couldn't  expect  her  to  love 
an  ordinary  sort  of  chap  like  me,  just  like  a  million  other 
fellers  knockin'  about  —  but  she's  so  unusual  there  ain't  an- 
other woman  in  the  world  so  surprisin'  as  Rachel  — 

"  She's  fond  of  me,"  he  went  on,  "  I  know  that,  but  what  I 
■want  she  just  can't  give  me  and  that's  the  long  and  short 
of  it. 


264  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  Lately  it'8  been  terrible  hard.  She's  not  happy  and  that 
makes  me  wild,  and  every  day  that  passes  I  seem  to  want  her 
more.  Nothin'  else,  no  one  else  matters  now.  I've  been 
playin'  golf,  ridin',  sittin'  down  to  this  bridge  they're  all 
getting  mad  about,  doin'  every  blessed  thing  —  it  isn't  any 
use.  Do  you  know,  Christopher,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I'd  give 
my  soul  to  make  her  happy  and  I  just  can't " 

"  I  know "  said  Christopher. 

"  But  it's  worse  than  that  — "  Roddy  went  on,  taking  up 
the  poker  and  knocking  on  the  fire  — "  Lately  she's  been  hav- 
ing a  room  of  her  own.  Started  it  a  while  ago  as  a  temporary 
thing  and  now  she  sticks  to  it.  Up  here,  in  this  damned  town, 
we  hardly  see  one  another;  always  a  crowd  either  here  or 
outside.  I  know  Rachel  don't  like  it  and  I  don't  like  it,  but 
there  it  is  — 

"  "Next  week  we're  going  down  to  Seddon  and  things  may 
get  better  there  —  But  I  can't  stand  it  much  more  —  not  like 
this." 

"  Wait  a  bit.  It'll  come  all  right."  Christopher  spoke 
confidently.  "  I've  known  Rachel  since  she  was  a  small  child. 
She's  half  Russian,  you  know  —  you  must  always  remember 
that  —  and  Russian  and  Beaminster  make  a  strange  mixture 

—  Wait " 

"  That's  so  easy  to  say  — "  Roddy  answered,  shaking  his 
head.  "  It's  so  easy  to  say,  but  I  don't  see  just  what's  goin' 
to  make  things  different  from  what  they  are " 

"  No  —  one  never  sees,"  said  Christopher.  "  And  then 
Destiny  comes  along  and  does  something  that  we  call  coinci- 
dence and  just  settles  it  all.  Your  trouble  will  be  settled, 
Roddy,  if  you're  patient " 

"  Perhaps,"  Roddy  said  slowly,  "  you  could  see  her  a  bit 

—  find  out "  he  stopped. 

"  Anything  in  the  world  I  can  do  I  will.  We'll  find  a 
way.  Meanwhile,  Seddon,  there  is  a  bit  of  advice  I  can  give 
you " 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  Roddy. 


CHRISTOPHER'S  DAY  265 

"  Go  and  see  the  Duchess  more  than  you've  been  doing. 
See  her  a  lot  —  more  than  you  did  ever " 

"  Oh !  the  Duchess !  "  Roddy  sighed.  "  I  don't  know,  but 
it  all  seems  different  with  her  now.  I've  changed,  I  suppose. 
All  her  ideas  are  old-fashioned  and  wrong;  I  used  to  think 
her  rather  splendid " 

"  Yes  —  but  she's  ill  and  old,  and  you're  the  only  person 
in  the  world  she  cares  about." 

"  Yes,  I'll  go,"  said  Roddy  slowly.  "  I've  known  I  ought 
to  go." 

Voices  broke  in  upon  them;  the  door  opened  and  Rachel, 
followed  by  her  friend  May  Gremlin,  once  May  Eversley, 
came  in  — 

"  Oh !  Dr.  Chris !  You  dear !  "  she  cried,  and  came  for* 
ward  and  flung  her  arms  about  him  and  kissed  him. 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  from  her  black  furs  her  eyes  shone 
at  him.  Some  thought  caught  him.  He  knew  where  he  had 
seen  that  excited  glitter  already  to-day  —  Breton  at  lun- 
cheon — 

They  all  talked.     Then  Christopher  said  that  he  must  go. 

Rachel  came  with  him  to  the  door.  In  the  hall  she  looked 
at  him  defiantly,  that  flash  he  knew  so  well. 

"  You  never  come  now.  Dr.  Chris :  you've  given  me  up." 

"  I  don't  care  for  you  in  a  crowd  very  much.  There's 
always  a  crowd  now " 

"  Ask  me  alone  an«i  I'll  come,"  she  said,  but  still  her  eyes 
were  defiant. 

"  iN'o,"  he  said  gravely.  "  I'll  do  no  asking,  Rachel.  When 
you  want  me  I'm  there  for  you  at  any  time  —  at  awy 
time " 

For  answer  she  flung  her  arms  again  about  him  and  hugged 
him.  Her  heart  was  beating  furiously.  Then  without  an- 
other word  she  left  him. 


266  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

IV 

He  could  not  go  back  to  Harley  Street  yet.  The  sense  of 
apprehension  that  had  been  growing  with  him  all  day  would 
give  him  a  melancholy  evening,  were  he  to  spend  it  alone. 
He  thought  of  Brun.  Someone  had  told  him  that  the  little 
man  was  in  London. 

He  found  him  in  his  rooms,  reading,  with  a  cynical  expres- 
sion on  his  face,  a  French  review. 

"  I  came  to  see  — "  said  Christopher,  "  whether  you 
happened  to  be  free  to-night  and  would  dine  with  me.  I'm  a 
pessimist  for  once  this  evening  and  it  doesn't  suit  me !  " 

Brun  was  very,  very  sorry,  but  he  was  dining  with  a 
Russian  princess;  it  was  most  tiresome  that  he  should  have 
to  waste  his  time  with  a  Russian  princess  when  he'd  come 
over  to  London  on  this  occasion  expressly  to  study  the  Eng- 
lish people  at  this  interesting  crisis  of  their  affairs,  but  there 
it  was  —  he'd  no  idea  how  he'd  let  himself  in  for  it,  and  how 
much  rather  would  he  spend  the  evening  with  his  friend, 
Christopher. 

Christopher  said  that  he  would  smoke  one  cigarette  and 
that  then  he  must  go. 

"  And  so  you  feel  pessimistic  ? "  said  Brun,  looking  at 
Christopher  curiously  — "  It's  the  war,  Je  crois  hien  —  How 
alike  you  all  are !  " 

"  No,"  said  Christopher,  "  I  don't  think  the  war's  much 
io  do  with  it  I  dare  say  the  war's  a  very  good  thing  for  all 
of  us." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  —  ? "  said  Brun,  greatly  excited  — 
then  pulled  himself  up  — "  No,  it  wasn't  you.  It  was  Ark- 
wright.  More  than  a  year  ago  we  were  in  a  picture  gallery 
looking  at  your  Duchess's  picture,  and  coming  home  we  talked. 
I  said  then  that  something  would  come,  that  something  rrmst 
come,  and  that  then  everything,  everything  would  crumple  up. 
And  behold !  "  cried  Brun,  his  eyes  flashing  — "  See,  it 
crumples !  " 


CHRISTOPHER'S  DAY  267 

"  That's  a  little  previous  of  you,"  said  Christo- 
pher. "  Nothing  crumpled  yet.  We're  disturbed  of 
course " 

"  It  is  most  lucky,"  Brun  said,  "  most  lucky.  Here  we 
are,  you  and  I,  ordinary  people  enough,  with  the  end  of  a 
Period  with  its  death  and  the  way  it  takes  it,  all  for  us  to 
watch.     Most  lucky.  .  .  ." 

"End  of  Victorian  Age  .  .  .  Yoila!'*  and  with  a  little 
dramatic  gesture  he  waved  his  hand  as  though  he  were  fling- 
ing the  Age  and  its  lumber  away,  out  of  the  window. 

"  You  know,  Christopher,"  he  went  on,  "  I've  seen  things 
coming  over  here  for  so  long.  All  you  people,  you  couldn't 
have  gone  on  very  much  longer  so  remote  from  life.  And  now 
this  —  it  will  finish  your  Duchess,  your  Beaminsters,  your 
queen  in  her  bonnet,  your  Sundays  and  your  religion  and  your 
Whigs  and  Tories,  and  all  your  hypocrisies  —  N'o  names  any 
more  taken  just  because  they've  always  been  taken,  but  new 
names  made  by  men  who're  doing  things.  iNothing  taken 
for  granted  any  more. 

"  Your  Beaminsters  will  vanish,  and  then  you'll  have  your 
Denisons  and  Oaks  and  Ruddards  on  top.  Then  you'll  see  a 
time.  You'll  all  be  spinning  like  a  top,  dancing,  dancing  like 
dervishes.  Then  while  you're  busy  dancing  up  the  other 
people  will  quietly  come  —  all  the  real  people,  the  Individual- 
ists —  Women  will  have  their  justice  —  no  man  will  skunk 
behind  his  garden  hedge  because  he  doesn't  want  to  be 
bothered.     No  more  superstition,  no  more  ineflSciency " 

"  You're  a  wonderful  fellow,  Brun,"  said  Christopher, 
getting  up  and  flinging  away  the  end  of  his  cigarette. 
•*  You've  always  got  any  amount  to  say  —  but  do  you  never 
ehink  of  people  as  people,  not  as  theories  or  movements  or 
developments " 

"  No,  thank  God,  I  don't  That's  for  the  sentimentalists 
like  you,  Christopher.  People  are  all  the  same,  fools  or 
knaves." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Christopher. 


^S  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  Tell  me,"  Bnin  put  his  little  hand  on  the  other's  elbow, 
**  your  Beaminsters  now,  how  are  they  ?  " 

"  Thefre  all  right" 

"  The  Duchess  ?     I  hear  she's  not  so  well " 

"  Oh !  nonsense  —  Well  as  she's  been  any  time  these  last 
thirty  years." 

"  Yes  ?  So  —  I'm  glad.  But  the  other  Beaminsters  ? 
Ah  1  I  must  go  quickly  and  call — To  see  them  burst  asunder, 
that  will  be  most  amusing " 

Christopher  laughed.  "  You  won't  see  the  Duke  or  Rich- 
ard Beaminster  burst,"  he  said  — "  They're  like  you  —  no 
personal  feeling." 

"And  the  girl?" 

"Lady  Seddon?" 

"  Yes.  She'll  stir  things  up.  She's  not  a  Beaminster,  or 
only  enough  of  one  to  make  her  hate  the  family.  And  she 
does  hate  them,  hein?  *' 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Brun,  you've  got  an  absurdly  exaggerated 
view  about  everything.  You'd  twist  the  Beaminsters  into 
anything  to  make  them  fit  your  theory." 

"  Oh,  they'll  fit  it  right  enough.  But  I  must  be  in  at  the 
death.  We'll  meet  there  together,  Christopher.  Things  will 
occur  before  we're  much  older,  my  sentimentalist." 

Christopher  shook  his  head.  "  There's  something  sinister 
about  your  appearances  in  the  City,  Brun.  '  Where  the  car- 
cases are,  there  will  .  .  .'  " 

Brun  nodded.     "  It's  true  enough  this  time,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  DARKEST  HOUR 

'  So  God  help  us !  and  God  knows  what  disorders  we  may  fall  inta 
,  .  Home  and  to  bed  with  a  heavy  heart." 

Diary  of  8<wiuel  Pepys. 


DIJRIl^G  that  terrible  December  week  in  1899,  England 
suffered  more  defeats  to  her  arms  than  during  any 
other  week  of  the  century.  Magersfontein,  Stormberg, 
Colenso,  their  names  leapt  one  after  another  on  to  the  screen. 

London  was  dismayed;  London  was  impatient.  Easy 
enough  to  declare  that  the  most  criminal  blunders  had  been 
perpetrated,  easy  enough  to  explain  how  one  would  oneself 
have  conducted  this  or  that,  manoBuvred  hither  or  thither 
some  pawn  in  the  game. 

Dismay  remained  —  a  wide  active  alarm  at  the  things  that 
Life,  so  suddenly  real  and  dominating  and  destructive,  might 
in  the  future  be  preparing. 

To  Lord  John  this  terrible  week  was  simply  the  climax  to 
a  succession  of  disturbing  revelations  of  reality.  All  his  days 
had  he  been  denying  Life,  wrapping  it  up  in  one  covering 
after  another,  calling  it  finally  a  box  of  chocolates  or  a  racing 
card,  a  good  cigar  or  a  pretty  woman,  knowing,  at  his  heart, 
that  somewhere  in  the  dark  forest  the  wild  beast  was  waiting 
for  him,  hoping  that  he  might  survive  to  the  end  without 
facing  it. 

'Now  it  was  before  him  and  its  glittering  eyes  were  upom 
hinL 

He  had  gone  on  the  Friday  of  this  week,  to  pay  a  week* 
end  visit  at  a  country  house  near  ^Newmarket.  Many  jolly, 
happy  week-ends  he  had  spent  at  this  same  house  on  other 
occasions,  now,  from  first  to  last,  it  was  nightmare. 

269 


270  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

On  the  Monday  morning  at  breakfast  a  sudden  conviction 
of  the  impossible  horror  of  this  world  struck  at  his  heart  It 
came  as  a  revelation,  life  was  for  him  never  to  be  the  same 
again.  His  hostess,  a  large-bosomed  white-haired  lady, 
planted  at  the  end  of  the  table  like  an  enormous  artificial  toy 
in  the  middle  of  whose  back  some  key  must  be  turned  if  the 
affair  is  to  amuse  the  crowd,  suddenly  horrified  him;  the 
women  of  the  party,  their  noses  a  little  blue,  their  cheeks  a 
touch  too  white,  their  voices  hard  and  sharp,  the  men,  red  and 
brown,  boisterously  hearty  about  the  animals  they  hoped  to 
kill  before  the  day  was  done,  the  cold  food  in  a  glazed  and 
greedy  row,  the  hot  food  —  kidneys,  fish,  bacon,  sausages, 
sizzling  and  scenting  the  air  — :  the  table  itself  with  its  racks 
of  toast  and  marmalade  and  silver  and  fruit:  the  conversa- 
tion that  sounded  as  though  the  speakers  were  afraid  that 
the  food  would  all  disappear  were  they  spontaneous  or  natural 
■ —  all  these  things  suddenly  appeared  to  Lord  John  in  a  very 
horrible  light,  so  that,  in  an  instant,  racing  and  women  and 
clothes  and  food  were  banished  from  a  naked  biting  world 
in  which  he  was  a  naked  solitary  figure. 

He  caught  a  train  as  one  flies  from  some  horrible  plague: 
he  arrived  in  London,  breathless,  confused,  miserable,  the 
foundations  of  Life  broken  from  beneath  him. 

Here  he  found  Lady  Adela  in  a  like  condition. 

He  had  never  cared  very  greatly  for  his  sister,  he  had  not 
found  her  sympathetic  or  amusing,  she  had  never  appealed 
to  him  for  assistance,  nor  challenged  his  violent  opposition. 
He  had  never  enquired  very  deeply  into  her  interests;  she 
had  much  correspondence  and  many  acquaintances.  She 
ran,  he  supposed,  the  house  or,  at  least,  directed  Miss  Rand 
to  run  it  for  her. 

He  thought  her  a  rather  stupid  woman,  but  then  all  the 
Beaminsters  thought  one  another  stupid  because  they  be- 
lieved so  intensely  in  the  Duchess  and  she  had  always  made  a 
point  of  seeing  that,  individually,  they  despised  one  another, 
although  collectively  they  faced  the  world. 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR  2Y1 

Finally,  Adela  had  always  seemed  to  him  unsympathetic 
towards  Rachel  and  that  he  found  it  very  hard  to  forgive  — 
but  then,  he  often  reflected  they  were  all,  with  the  exception 
of  himself,  a  most  unsentimental  family.  He  wondered 
sometimes  why  he  was  so  different. 

On  the  afternoon  of  his  return  from  I^ewmarket,  how- 
ever, he  began  to  wonder  whether,  after  all,  Adela  had  not 
more  in  common  with  him  than  he  had  ever  expected.  He 
had  lunched  at  the  club,  had  plunged  down  into  the  City  to 
enquire  about  some  investments,  it  had  begun  to  rain,  and  he 
had  returned  with  the  weight  of  that  gloomy  day  full  heavily 
upon  him. 

He  did  not,  as  a  rule,  have  tea,  but  to-day  he  needed  com- 
pany, and  he  found  Adela  in  the  little  sitting-room  next  to 
the  library,  a  little  room  with  faded  wall-paper,  faded  pic- 
tures (groups,  some  of  them,  of  himself  and  Vincent  and 
Richard  at  Eton  and  Ox;ford),  faded  arm-chairs  and  faded 
chintzes  —  a  nice,  cosy,  friendly  room,  full  of  old  associations 
and  old  hopes  and  despairs. 

This  room  did  not  often  see  either  Lady  Adela  or  John, 
but  to-day  N^orris,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  had  put 
tea  there  and,  to  both  of  them,  as  they  sat  over  the  fire  with 
the  great  house  so  still  and  quiet  about  them,  the  shabby: 
intimacy  of  the  little  place  was  grateful. 

John,  disturbed,  himself,  out  of  his  normal  easy  geniality, 
noticed  that  Adela  also  was  disturbed. 

That  dry  and  rather  gritty  assurance  that  had  all  her  life 
protected  her  from  both  the  praise  and  abuse  of  her  fellow- 
men  and  women  was,  to-day,  absent.  She  seemed  really 
grateful  to  John  for  coming  to  have  tea  with  her  to-day.  He 
wondered  whether  she  felt  as  he  did  that  this  war,  with  all 
its  horrors,  foreboded,  in  some  manner,  special  disasters  upon 
the  Beaminster  family,  as  though  it  were  a  portent,  to  be 
read  of  all  men,  of  the  destruction  and  ruin  of  that  family. 

"  Poor  Adela,"  he  thought,  "  she's  very  plain.  If  she  asks 
me  to  help  her  I  will.     She's  got  something  on  her  mind." 


272  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  Racliers  here,"  Lady  Adela  said,  looking  at  her  brother 
nervously. 

^^Now?" 

"  Yes,  she's  with  mother.  She  came  to  say  good-bye  to  her. 
She  and  Roddy  are  going  down  to  Seddon  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  I  know "  said  John. 

"  She's  very  queer  —  very  odd.  I  don't  pretend  to  under- 
stand her." 

"  We're  all  queer  just  now,"  said  John.  "  Dovni  at  the 
club  to-day  it  was  too  awful.  I^o  other  subject  —  fellows 
killed,  fellows  going  out  to  be  killed.  Blunder,  blame,  dis- 
grace —  all  the  time.     But  what's  Rachel  been  doing  odd  ?  " 

"  You  understand  her  better  than  I  do,"  said  his  sister. 
"  She  always  liked  you  better.  I  did  my  best  with  her,  but 
she  never  cared  about  me.  But  now  I  understand  her  less 
than  ever.  She's  so  excited  and  hard  and  unnatural.  Some- 
thing's happened  to  her  that  we  don't  know  about,  I'm  sure." 

John  said  nothing.  He  was  unhappy  enough  about  Rachel, 
but  he  did  not  intend  to  talk  to  Adela  about  it.  He  would 
rather  not  talk  to  anyone  about  it  because  talking  only  brought 
it  more  actually  in  front  of  him.  Besides,  he  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  He  knew  that  he  had  been  cowardly  about 
Rachel.  He  had  tried  to  pretend  to  himself  that  she  was 
happy  when  he  had  knovm  that  she  was  not  and  so,  for  the 
sake  of  his  comfort,  he  had  stifled  the  most  genuine  emotion 
in  his  life ;  that  indeed  was  the  Beaminster  habit. 

"  She's  not  happy,"  continued  Adela.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why  —  Roddy's  very  good  to  her  —  very  good.  She's 
so  queer.  She  wants  to  have  Miss  Rand  down  with  her  at 
Seddon  for  Christmas." 

"Miss  Rand?" 

"  Yes  —  she  asked  me  whether  I'd  let  her  go.  She's  got  to 
give  a  dance  and  a  dinner-party  or  two  and  asked  me  whether 
she  might  have  her  help.  Of  course  I  said  '  Yes.'  Miss 
Rand  hasn't  been  looking  at  all  weU  for  some  time  now.  A 
change  will  do  her  good." 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR  2TS 

"  What  did  Miss  Rand  say  when  you  told  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  was  odd.  She  has  been  odd  lately.  At  first  she 
thought  she  wouldn't  go.  Then  she  said  she  would.  I  told 
her  it  would  do  her  good." 

"  How's  mother  been  the  last  two  days  ?  " 

"  Oh !  the  same.  She  won't  say  anything  —  she  confides 
in  nobody." 

John  looked  at  his  sister  and  wondered  why  it  was  that  he 
had  never,  during  all  these  years,  considered  her  as  a  person- 
ality or  as  anything  actively  happy  or  miserable.  She  had 
had,  he  suddenly  supposed,  a  life  of  her  own  that  was,  in  a 
way,  as  acute  and  sensitive  as  his  and  yet  he  had  never 
realized  this. 

He  had  always  taken  his  mother's  word  for  it  that  Adela 
was  a  dried-up  stick  who  resented  interference;  now  he  waa 
sure  that  that  judgment  was  short-sighted,  and  then,  upon 
this,  came  criticism  of  his  mother;  therefore,  to  banish  such 
disloyalty,  he  said  hurriedly: 

"  I  didn't  enjoy  the  Massiters  a  bit  —  longed  to  get  away 
—  Sunday  was  miserable " 

Adela  said  — "  I  never  could  bear  them  —  John "  she 

stopped. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  looking  across  at  her.  His  large  good- 
tempered  eyes  met  hers  and  then  the  colour  mounted  very 
slowly  into  her  cheeks.  He  had  never  seen  her  agitated  be- 
fore— 

"  John  — "  she  began  again.  "  I  must  do  something.  I 
can't  sit  here  —  just  quietly  —  going  on  as  though  nothing 
were  happening.  I  know  —  all  one's  life  one's  stood  aside 
rather,  I've  never  wanted  to  interfere  with  anyone.  But  now> 
this  war  has  made  one  feel  differently,  I  think." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  her  brother. 

"  Well  —  an  organization  is  being  formed  —  women,  you 
jknow  —  to  help  in  some  way.  They're  going  to  do  every- 
thing, make  clothes,  have  sales  and  concerts  and  get  money  to- 
gether.    It's  to  be  a  big  thing  —  Nelly  Ponsonby,  Clara  Rad- 


274  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

dleton,  lots  of  others.  .  .  .  They've  asked  me  to  be  on  tho 
committee " 

''  Well  ?  "  said  John,  "  why  not  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  appealingly.  "  Mrs.  Bronson's  on  it  too 
' —  one  of  the  originators  of  it" 

"  Oh !  "  John  was  silent.  Here  was,  indeed,  a  question. 
Mrs.  Bronson,  the  Beaminster  arch-enemy.  Mrs.  Bronson, 
who  had  snapped  her  bejewelled  American  fingers  at  the 
Duchess  —  Mrs.  Bronson,  who  called  the  Beaminsters  the 
most  insulting  names.  Why,  a  fortnight  ago  any  alliance 
with  such  a  woman  was  unthinkable,  incredible  — 

"  I  believe,"  went  on  Lady  Adela,  "  that  she  herself  pro- 
posed that  I  should  be  asked.  .   .  ," 

A  fortnight  ago  .  .  .  and  now  — 

John  knew  that  he  was  glad  that  Adela  wished  to  join  the 
committee,  he  knew  that  he  was  closer  to  Adela  now  than  he 
had  ever  been  at  any  moment  during  their  lives  together. 

He  looked  across  at  her  and  their  eyes  met  and  in  that 
glance  exchanged  between  them  barriers  were  broken  down, 
curtains  turned  aside  —  they  would  never  be  strangers  again. 

"  Mother  isn't  well,"  Adela  said  quite  firmly.  "  Hasn't 
been  well  for  a  long  time  —  we've  all  known  it.  She  has  felt 
this  war  and  —  and  other  things  very  much.  She  will  feel 
my  going  on  to  the  same  committee  as  Mrs.  Bronson  —  she 
will  certainly  feel  it.  But  I  think  it's  my  duty  to  do  so. 
After  all,  on  an  occasion  like  this  family  feeling  must  give 
way  before  national  ones."  Why  did  not  the  walls  and  foun- 
dations of  N^o.  104  Portland  Place  rock  and  quiver  before  the 
horrid  sacrilege  of  such  words?  John,  himself,  almost  ex- 
pected them  to  do  so  and  yet  he  was  of  his  sister's  opinion. 

"  I  think  you  are  perfectly  right,  Adela,"  he  said. 

"  Oh !  I'm  so  glad  that  you  do.  I  don't  want  to  worry 
mother,  just  now.  I'm  frankly  rather  nervous  about  telling 
ber  —  but  it  must  be  done." 

"  It's  odd,  Adela,"  said  John,  leaning  back  in  his  chaif 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR  275 

and  crossing  his  fat  legs.  "  But  something  real  like  this  war, 
a  ghastly  day  with  boys  shouting  horrors  at  you  followed  by 
another  ghastly  day  with  more  boys  shouting  more  horrors, 
it  does  shake  one's  life  up.  I've  been  very  cowardly,  Adela, 
about  a  number  of  things.  I  see  that  now.  I've  never  really 
wanted  to  see  it  before.     It  makes  one  uncomfortable." 

"  I  don't  think  one  ought  to  give  way,"  said  Adela  with  a 
slight  return  to  her  gritty  manner,  "  to  one's  feelings  too 
much.  But  certainly  one  is  beginning  to  see  things  differ- 
ently, which  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  people  of  our  age, 
John." 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  I  suppose  it  is."  He  paused  and  then 
brought  out  — "  There's  Francis,  Adela.  We've  all  been  very 
wrong  about  Francis.  I've  felt  it  for  a  long  time,  but  hadn't 
the  courage.  .  .  .  He's  been  behaving  very  well  all  this  time 
—  One  oughtn't  to  hold  aloof  —  altogether " 

"  Mother  refuses  to  have  his  name  mentioned " 


"  We  must  take  into  account,"  John  said  very  slowly  and 
now  without  meeting  his  sister's  eye  — "  that  mother  is  not  so 
well  —  scarcely  so  sure  in  her  judgment " 

He  broke  off.  There  was  a  long  pause  and  they  looked 
away  from  one  another,  as  though  they  had  been  guilty  con- 
spirators.    Norris  came  in  to  take  the  tea  away. 

"  Has  Lady  Seddon  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  She  was  with  Her  Grace  a  very  short 
time '' 

Adela  turned  impatiently  to  John.  "  So  like  Rachel.  She 
might  at  least  have  come  to  say  good-bye  to  us." 

When  Norris  had  gone  John  got  up  and  walked  a  little 
about  the  room. 

He  stopped  beside  his  sister  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der: 

"  If  there's  anything  I  can  ever  do  to  help  you,  Adela,  tell 
me !  "  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,  John,"  she  answered. 


2ie  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

n 

Eacliel  liad  never  understood  why  it  was  that  she  was 
driven  so  constantly  into  her  grandmother's  presence.  The 
impulse  that  drove  her  had  in  it,  perhaps,  something  of  de- 
fiance and  something  of  challenge  as  though  she  cried  to  some 
weakness  in  her  that  it  should  not  master  her  and  that  she 
would  just  show  it  how  little  those  visits  mattered  to  her.  It 
had  all  begun  from  some  reason  of  that  kind,  and  lately, 
whan  she  grew  older,  she  discovered  that  her  grandmother  was 
more  terrible  through  imagination  than  she  was  through  actual 
vision. 

There  was  never  absent  from  Eachel  a  lurking  presentiment 
of  what  her  grandmother  might  one  day  do,  and  she  went  to 
see  her  now  to  discover  what  she  might  be  at,  to  prove  to  her 
that,  whatever  she  be  doing,  Eachel  was  "  up  "  to  her. 

On  this  particular  occasion  the  visit  was  a  very  brief  one, 
but  there  was  one  moment  in  it  that  after  events  always  pro- 
duced for  Eachel  as  a  most  definite  and  (on  the  part  of  the 
Duchess)  omniscient  omen. 

Eachel  had  said  that  she  had  come  in  only  for  a  moment  to 
say  good-bye.  She  had  talked  a  little  and  then,  rising,  stood 
by  the  fire. 

As  she  stood  there  her  grandmother  suddenly  looked  at  her 
—  a  glance  that  Eachel  had  not  been  intended  to  catch. 
There  was  there  a  malicious  humour,  a  consciousness  of  some 
power,  of  some  disaster  that  could  be  delivered,  triumphantly, 
at  an  instant's  notice. 

Very  swiftly  Eachel  gathered  her  control,  but  she  had  felt 
what  that  look  conveyed. 

"  Francis  .  .  .  she  knows  .  .  .  what  is  she  going  to  do  ?  " 

She  strung  her  slim,  tall  figure  to  its  finest  restraint  and 
without  a  quiver  in  her  voice  (her  heart  was  beating  wildly), 
"  Good-bye,  grandmamma.  I  promised  Eoddy  to  be 
back." 

But  the  old  lady  looked  at  her  — 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR  277 

"  How  you  do  hate  me,  my  dear,"  she  said  almost  com- 
placently. 

Rachel  compelled  the  other's  eyes.  "  Would  I  come  to  see 
you  so  often  if  I  did  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  you  would.  You've  got  a  sense  of  humour 
hidden  somewhere  although,  God  knows,  we've  seen  little 
enough  of  it  lately.  Oh!  yes,  you'd  come  all  right  —  if  it 
were  only  to  see  me  growing  older  and  older." 

Rachel  turned,  flaming.  "  There,  at  any  rate,  you're  un- 
just. It's  you  that  have  always  hated  me  from  the  ban- 
ning —  since  I  was  small.  Hated  me,  been  unjust  to 
me ^" 

Her  body  trembled  with  agitation  —  she  was  not  far  from 
one  of  her  old  tempests  of  passion. 

But  the  Duchess  smiled.  "  You  exaggerate,  Rachel,  your 
old  fault.  At  any  rate,  I'll  be  gone  soon,  I  suppose  —  it  will 
seem  trivial  enough  one  day.  ,  .  ."  Then  as  Rachel,  turn- 
ing to  the  door,  left  her  — "  But  hurt  a  hair  of  Roddy's  head, 
my  dear,  and  —  well,  you'll  hate  me  more  than,  ever " 

in 

When  Rachel  had  gone  the  Duchess  felt  very  ill  indeed. 
She  had  only  to  touch  a  bell  and  Dorchester  would  be  with 
her,  but  she  did  not  intend  to  summon  Dorchester  before  she 
need. 

She  felt  now,  at  this  minute,  that  her  spirit  of  resistance 
had  almost  snapped.  Again  and  again,  throughout  the  last 
months,  the  temptation  to  lie  down  and  surrender  had  swept 
up,  beaten  about  her  walls  and  then  sunk,  defeated,  back 
again. 

But  this  last  week  of  disaster  had  tried  her  severely.  Her 
pride  in  life  had  been  largely  her  pride  in  the  arrangement 
of  it  and  now  all  that  arrangement  was  tumbling  to  pieces  and 
she  powerless  to  prevent  it.  For  the  first  time  in  all  her 
days  she  felt  that  she  would  like  to  have  someone  with  her  who 
would  reassure  her  —  someone  less  acid  than  Dorchester. 


278  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

Why  had  she  never  had  a  companion  —  a  woman  like  Misa 
Rand  who  would  understand  without  being  sentimental  ? 

There  was  pain  in  every  muscle  and  nerve  of  her  body :  it 
swept  up  and  down  her  old  limbs  in  hot  waves.  .  .  .  She 
clutched  the  arms  of  her  chair. 

Even  her  brain,  that  had  always  been  so  sharp  and  clear, 
was  now  confused  a  little  and  passed  strange  unusual  pictures 
before  her  eyes.  That  girl  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  Dorchester  had 
been  very  clever  about  that :  Dorchester  had  been  in  communi- 
cation with  Breton's  manservant  for  a  long  time  past.  To 
go  to  tea  there  ...  to  be  alone  with  him  .  .  .  Roddy  — 

And  at  that  dearly  loved  name  all  was  sharp  and  accurate. 
Night  and  day  she  was  terrified  lest  she  should  suddenly  hear 
that  he  was  off  to  South  Africa.  She  believed  that  that  would 
really  kill  her.  Roddy  —  her  Roddy  —  to  go  and  make  an- 
other of  those  ghastly  tragedies  with  which  the  newspapers 
were  now  full.  But  let  Rachel  disdain  him  and  he  would 
go  merely  to  show  her  how  fine  a  fellow  he  was  —  what  idiots 
men  were! 

Or  let  this  other  thing  become  a  scandal,  then  surely  he 
would  go. 

She  shook  there  in  her  chair  and  tben  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  fire  prayed  to  whatever  gods  or  devils  were  hers  that 
he  might  not  go.  Anything,  anything  so  that  he  might  not 
go.     Break  him  up,  hurt  him  —  only,  only  he  must  not  go. 

She  prayed,  thrusting  her  whole  soul  and  spirit  into  her 
urgency  — 

Then,  even  as  she  sat  there,  her  darkest  hour  was  suddenly 
upon  her  It  leapt  upon  her,  as  it  were  a  beast  out  of  some 
sudden  darknesses  —  leapt  upon  her,  seized  her,  tore  her, 
crushed  her  little  dried  withered  soul  in  its  claws  and  tossed 
it  to  the  fire. 

She  was  held  by  the  sudden  absolute  realization  of  Death. 
She  had  never  seen  it  or  known  it  before.  Others  had  died 
and  she  had  not  cared ;  many  were  dying  now  and  it  did  not 
concern  her. 


THE  DAKKEST  HOUR  279 

But  this  beast  crouching  in  front  of  her,  with  its  burning 
eyes  on  her  face,  said  to  her :  "  All  your  life  I've  been  be- 
side you,  waiting  for  this  moment.  I  knew  that  it  would 
come.  I  have  waited  a  long  time  —  you  have  played  and 
thought  yourself  important  and  have  cared  for  meddling  in 
the  affairs  of  the  world,  but  Reality  has  never  touched  you. 
You  have  gathered  things  about  you  to  pretend  that  I  was  not 
there.  You  have  mocked  at  others  when  they  have  seen 
me  —  you  have  enjoyed  their  terror  —  now  your  own  terror 
has  come." 

Death,  .  .  .  She  had  never  —  until  this  instant  —  given 
it  a  thought.  Everything  was  gone  before  its  presence.  In 
a  week  or  two,  a  month  or  two,  silence  — 

Rachel  —  she  saw  her  standing  there  by  the  fire,  full  of  life 
and  energy,  so  young,  so  strong. 

She,  the  Duchess  of  Wrexe,  the  great  figure,  courted  by 
kings,  princes,  artists,  all  the  men  and  women  of  her  time, 
now  must  crumble  into  the  veriest  dust,  be  forgotten,  be  fol- 
lowed by  others,  banished  by  this  new  world. 

She  and  her  Times  were  slipping,  slipping  into  disuse. 
Who  cared  now  for  those  other  glories?  What  minds  now 
were  fit  to  tackle  those  minds  that  she  had  known?  What 
beauty  now  could  stand  beside  that  beauty  that  had  shone 
when  she  was  young  ? 

The  beast  crouched  nearer.  The  room  darkened.  She 
could  feel  the  hot  breath,  could  be  dazed  by  the  shining  of 
those  eyes.  Behind  her,  around  her,  the  trumpery  toys  that 
ehe  had  gathered  faded. 

Darkness  rose ;  a  great  space  and  desolation  was  about  her 
—  She  tried  to  summon  all  her  energy. 

She  cried  out  and  Dorchester,  coming  in,  found  that  her 
mistress  had,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  fainted,  bending, 
an  old,  broken  woman,  forward  in  her  chair. 


CHAPTER  X 

LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — n 


THE  world,  during  all  these  montlis,  had  seemed  to  Lizzie 
Rand  a  very  silent  place.  Before  that  July  night  it 
had  been  loud  with  incident,  coloured  with  possibilities, 
strange  and  varied  and  thrilling.  Now  she  was  only  con- 
scious of  the  duties  that  must  be  fulfilled  between  daybreak 
and  darkness ;  she  was  unconscious  of  all  life  and  movement, 
only  she  was  aware  of  the  demands  on  her  deliberate  activity 
■ — these  demands  she  obeyed. 

Slowly,  as  the  dreary  autumn  dragged  its  days  past  her, 
she  accustomed  herself  to  forestall  the  horrid  moments  that 
would  leap  from  some  hidden  darkness  upon  her.  There  was 
the  moment  when  a  something  said :  "  Fancy  caring  for 
someone  who  had  never  asked  nor  shown  any  sign.  .  .  ." 
Another  moment  when  something  said :  "  Remember  how 
here  you  stood,  with  your  heart  beating,  waiting  for  him  to 
come  —  There  you  caught  some  light  in  his  eyes  and  fancied 
it  a  sign.  .  .  ." 

Burning  shame  was  in  those  moments  did  she  indulge  them 
—  a  realization,  too,  of  the  bare  grey  desolation  of  a  world 
without  movement  or  vision.  She  could  not  see  the  people 
about  her,  her  mother,  her  sister.  Lady  Adela,  Dr.  Christopher 
(always  kind  to  her),  other  friends  —  they  were  not  there  for 
her  at  all. 

Only  two  things  were  there  —  that  she  must  cling,  at  all 
possible  costs,  to  her  pride  and  that  she  hated  Rachel.  Her 
pride  had  been  called  to  her  defence  before,  but  to  hate  anyone 
was  new  to  her.  She  had  never  hated  any  human  being  and 
now  the  restlessness  that  this  new  emotion  brought  confused 
her. 

280 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — II  281 

IN'iglit  after  night  stretched  ironically  before  her,  banishing 
sleep.  All  her  life  she  had  slept  from  the  moment  that  her 
head  was  upon  the  pillow;  now,  at  that  instant,  her  brain 
sprang  to  fire,  thought  after  thought,  memory  after  memory, 
passed  in  dancing  procession  before  her. 

She  saw  him  as  little  as  possible,  she  supposed  that  in  time 
she  would  not  care,  would  be  indifferent  to  him ;  she  hoped  so. 

Meanwhile  she  went  out  when  he  came  in;  saw  his  kind 
distress  because  he  thought  that  she  was  not  well,  and  shud- 
dered at  it. 

Then  Lady  Adela  told  her  that  Rachel  had  asked  whether 
she  were  free  for  Christmas. 

She  received  a  letter : 

"  Dear  Miss  Rand, 

I  wonder  whether  by  any  chance  you  would  care  to 
come  to  us  here  for  three  weeks  at  Christmas  time  ?  I 
should  be  so  grateful  if  you  would  come  and  help  me  a  little 
with  some  tiresome  social  things  here.  May  I  add  that  I 
have  for  a  long  time  wanted  to  know  you  better  than  the 
London  rush  ever  gives  time  for  ?  My  aunt  says  that  you 
have  been  overworking  lately,  she  thinks.  If  you  come 
here  you  shall  have  all  the  rest  and  quiet  possible. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Rachel  Seddon." 

A  funny  little  letter  —  stiff  and  then  suddenly  impulsive 
and  friendly. 

Of  course  she  would  go  —  she  had  never  doubted  that. 
Here  at  last  was  some  food  for  the  burning  restlessness  that 
was  always  at  her  breast  —  Through  these  months  she  had 
longed  for  some  step  that  would  help  to  kill  the  pain. 

'Now  she  would  watch  Rachel  and  discover  her  heart  and 
perhaps  find  from  that  discovery  some  way  for  her  own  re- 
lease. For  her  shame,  night  and  day,  was  that  she  still 
cared,  cared,  yes,  as  deeply  as  she  had  ever  done  —  that  car- 
ing must  die. 


S82  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

Perhaps  the  sight  and  knowledge  of  this  other  woman 
would  kill  it. 

At  least  here  at  last  was  action  after  the  terrible  silence 
and  remoteness  of  those  many  months. 

She  would  go  to  Seddon  and  she  would  not  leave  it  without 
finding  some  way  by  which  she  might  still  make  some  use  of 
life. 

n 

She  had  really  stayed  at  very  few  houses  before.  The 
anticipation  at  any  other  time  would  have  excited  her,  now 
nothing  mattered  except  that  she  would  meet  Rachel. 

Her  mother  and  sister  had  watched  her  during  these  past 
months  with  a  dismay  stirred  by  the  sudden  absence  of  her 
genial  friendliness. 

They  had  taken  so  much  of  her  kindliness  for  granted  and 
now  when  she  refused  them  the  sympathy  that  they  had  al- 
ways demanded  for  a  thousand  unimportant  incidents  they, 
clamorously,  missed  it. 

At  first  it  was  easy  to  say  that  Lizzie  was  callous  and  selfish, 
afterwards  that  she  was  ill  and  overworked,  finally  they  hailed 
with  relief  the  promise  of  a  three-weeks'  holiday.  "  She'll 
come  back,"  said  Mrs.  E-and,  "  as  fresh  as  paint,  and  taken 
out  of  herself." 

Meanwhile  no  solution  of  Lizzie's  trouble  occurred  to  them  j 
that  she  should  ever  feel  the  tyranny  of  love,  like  more  senti- 
mental mortals,  was,  at  this  time  of  day,  impossible.  "  We 
know  Lizzie,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Eand. 

They  watched  her,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  23rd  of  Decem- 
ber, depart  in  a  cab  for  Seddon  Court.  She  was  grave  and 
pale  and  beautifully  neat.  "  I  do  admire  Lizzie,  you  know," 
said  Daisy,  returning  with  her  mother  into  the  house.  "  I 
can't  get  that  kind  of  tidiness.  Her  things  go  on  for  years, 
looking  as  good  as  new." 

"  Men  like  a  bit  of  disorder,"  said  Mrs.  Eand.     "  It  seems 


LIZZIE'S  JOUENEY  — II  283 

more  agitated.  All  the  same  I'd  like  to  know  what  is  worry- 
ing Lizzie." 

It  was  a  wet  and  gusty  day  and  the  wind  blew  the  rain 
with  hard  impatient  spurts  against  the  windows  of  the  cab. 
Eew  people  were  about:  Hyde  Park  Comer  was  grey  and 
deserted,  umbrellas  like  black  mushrooms  started  here  and 
there  from  the  shining  ground. 

Victoria  Station  also  had,  on  this  afternoon,  nothing  beau- 
tiful to  offer.  She  found  her  way  to  her  train,  chose  an 
empty  carriage,  sat  in  her  corner  with  her  hands  upon  her 
lap,  waited  for  the  train  to  move. 

People,  grey  people  with  white  faces,  hurried  past  her 
carriage.  She  wondered  whether  they  too  had  something  in 
their  hearts  that  made  every  thought,  every  movement,  a  dan- 
ger. 

Because  the  train  would  not  move  and  because  for  the 
first  time  in  all  these  months  she  found  herself  without  any 
occupation,  she  could  not  hold  thought  at  bay.  She  resisted, 
ehe  tried  to  sweep  her  brain  empty,  she  surrendered.  She, 
Lizzie  Rand,  always  so  fond  of  her  self-discipline  and  re- 
straint, found  control  now  slipping  from  her.  Before  she 
had  met  Breton  her  duties,  the  skilful  manipulation  and  ar- 
rangement of  detail,  her  work  and  her  place  as  a  worker,  these 
had  supplied  her  needs.  ]!^ow  all  those  things  were  dust  and 
ashes ;  high  and  lofty  above  them  shone  that  bright  fire  whose 
warmth  and  colour  she  had,  for  an  instant,  felt  and  seen. 
What  was  life  going  to  be,  through  all  the  years  to  come,  if 
ehe  were  never  to  recapture  her  tranquillity  ? 

The  train  moved  off  and  she  sat  there,  her  eyes  bright  and 
shining,  her  little  body  stiff  and  resolute.  Somewhere,  a  long 
way  away,  like  a  rounded  coloured  cloud,  hovered  emotion  — 
emotion  that  would  break  her  heart,  would  tear  her  to  pieces 
and  then  perhaps  build  up  for  her  a  new  life.  But  her  eyes 
now  were  dry  and  her  heart  was  cold. 

The  train  went  whir-whack  —  whack-whir  and  the  tele- 


284  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

graph  wires  flew  up,  hung,  hesitated,  were  coming  down,  flew 
higher,  then  with  a  rush  were  buried  below  the  window,  and 
with  the  noise  and  movement  there  danced  before  her  eyes  the 
questions,  "  Does  she  love  him  ?  Does  she  love  him  ?  Has 
she  told  him  that  she  loves  him?  What  will  her  husband 
do  ?  Does  she  love  her  husband  ?  "  And  then,  beyond  that, 
"  Why  did  she  come  and  take  from  me  all  that  I  had,  she 
who  had  already  so  much  ?  " 

And  then,  most  bitter  of  all,  "  Ah,  but  you  never  had 
him.  She  took  nothing  from  you.  He  never  thought  of  you 
except  as  someone  to  whom  he  could  talk " 

She  had  no  doubt  that  these  weeks  were  intended  for  a 
crisis.  Something  was  going  to  happen  at  Seddon.  .  .  . 
Something  in  which  she  was  to  have  her  share.  She  felt  as 
though  she  had  known  that  she  would  be  sent  to  meet  Rachel 
—  It  had  to  be.  .  .  . 

Then  her  thoughts  left,  for  a  time,  her  own  miserable  little 
history.  She  wondered  how  Lady  Adela  would  manage  with- 
out her.  Lady  Adela  had  never  been  alone  before  and  now 
that  the  Duchess  had  had,  a  fortnight  ago,  that  fainting  fit, 
they  were  all  unsettled  and  alarmed.  What  would  happen  if 
the  Duchess  died?  Then  all  the  dignity  and  splendour  of 
104  Portland  Place  would  pass  away !  other  people  might  in- 
habit it,  but  the  soul  of  that  house  would  be  dead. 

Everything  on  every  side  of  her  seemed  to  be  hastening  to 
a  climax  and  Lizzie  could  see  that  old  woman  fighting,  be- 
hind her  closed  doors,  for  Life,  beaten  at  last,  dead,  swept 
away,  others  laughing  in  her  place  —  a  new  world  to  whom 
she  was  only  a  portrait  cleverly  painted  by  some  young  artist. 

Yes,  there  were  other  histories  developing  now  besides  Liz- 
zie's and  she  felt  as  though  she  had  been  whirled,  during  the 
last  months,  into  a  wild,  tossing  medley  of  contacts  and  revela- 
tions —  all  this  after  a  life  so  grey  and  quiet  and  steadily 
busy. 

As  the  train  plunged  into  Sussex  the  rain  stayed  for  a  little 
and  the  shining  earth  steamed  upwards  to  a  grey  sky  broken 


LIZZIE'S  JOUEN^EY  — II  28S 

tere  and  there  to  saffron.  Little  towns  quietly  rested  under 
the  hills  and  many  streams  ran  through  the  woods  and  the 
roads  drove  white  like  steel  through  the  crust  of  the  soil. 
White  lights  spread  in  the  upper  air  and  the  heaving  grey 
was  pushed,  as  though  by  some  hand,  back  into  the  distant 
horizon.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  the  sun  was  burst- 
ing through ;  trees  were  suddenly  green  where  they  had  been 
black  and  fields  red  where  they  had  been  sombre  dark — • 
Light  was  on  all  the  hills. 

But  the  hand  was  stayed.  Back  the  grey  rolled  again, 
heavily  like  chariots  the  clouds  wheeled  round  and  drove  down 
upon  the  earth  —  The  rain  fell. 

The  carriage  was  very  cold.  Lizzie's  hands  and  feet  were 
eo  chill  that  they  seemed  not  to  belong  to  her  at  all.  Pic- 
tures of  houses  at  Brighton  and  the  dining-car  of  some 
train  and  two  public-houses  at  the  bottom  of  a  hill  stared  at 
her. 

The  sense  of  some  coming  disaster  grew  with  her.  It  was 
as  though  someone  were  telling  her  that  she  must  prepare  to 
be  very  brave  and  controlled  and  wise  because,  very  soon,  all 
her  restraint  and  wisdom  would  be  needed.  She  summoned 
now,  as  she  had  learnt  to  do,  a  stern  armoured  resolution  that 
sat  always  a  little  oddly  upon  her.  Any  observer  who  had 
seen  her  sitting  there  would  have  noticed  the  mild  softness 
of  her  eyes,  the  tenderness  of  some  curve  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth,  and  would  have  smilea  at  the  lines  of  resolution  as 
though  he  had  knovni  that  the  sternness  was  all  assumed. 

But  she  was  saying  that  nothing  should  touch  or  move  her 
down  here  at  Seddon ;  her  heart  should  be  closed.  She  must 
grow  into  a  woman  who  had  no  need  of  emotion  —  and  even 
as  she  determined  that  some  vision  swept  her  by,  revealing 
to  her  the  happy  dear  uses  that  she  could  have  made  of  love 
and  sympathy  had  life  been  set  that  way  for  her.  How  she 
could  have  cared !  .  .  .  A  dry  little  sob  was  at  her  throat  and 
burning  pain  behind  her  tearless  eyes.  God,  the  things  that 
other  people  had  and  did  not  value ! 


2&6  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

The  train  stopped  at  a  wind-swept  deserted  station  and  a 
man  and  woman  with  a  little  child,  the  three  of  them  tired, 
wet,  bedraggled,  entered  the  carriage. 

The  man  was  gaunt  with  a  beard  and  large  helpless  eyes, 
the  woman  shapeless,  loose-breasted,  little  eyes  sunk  in  her 
cheeks,  an  old  black  straw  hat  tilted  back  on  her  head.  These 
two  did  not  glance  at  Lizzie,  nor  was  there  any  curiosity  or 
interest  in  their  eyes,  but  the  small  child,  yellow  wisps  of 
hair  falling  about  her  dirty  face,  detached  herself  from  them, 
crept  into  the  furthest  corner  of  the  carriage  and  from  there 
stared  at  Lizzie. 

The  train  droned  on  through  a  country  now  shrinking  be- 
neath a  deluge  of  rain.  The  child  moved  a  little,  looked  at 
the  woman,  looked  again  at  Lizzie,  crept  to  Lizzie's  side  of 
the  carriage,  at  last,  still  without  a  word,  came  close  and, 
finally,  stole  fingers  towards  Lizzie's  dress. 

Lizzie  turned  and  smiled  at  the  child,  who  stared  back  at 
her,  now  with  wide  terrified  eyes.  Lizzie  looked  away,  out 
of  the  window,  and  after  a  long  time,  felt  the  grimy  hand 
upon  her  knee. 

Once  the  woman  said,  "  Come  away,  Cissie.  You'r© 
worrying  the  lady." 

"  'No.  Please,"  said  Lizzie.  She  took  the  hand  in  her 
own  and  smiled  again  at  the  wide  baby  face.  The  child  was 
very,  very  young  and  very,  very  dirty  — 

No  child  had  ever  come  near  her  before.  She  wondered 
why  it  had  come  now. 

m 

At  Lewes  a  carriage  was  waiting  for  her  and,  in  a  moment, 
it  seemed  that  she  was  driving  through  a  dark  village  street 
and  in  front  of  her,  like  a  great  wall  topping  the  skies,  the 
Downs  rose. 

When  the  carriage  entered  the  courtyard  and  stopped  be- 
fore the  broad  stone  door  Lizzie  was  seized  with  terror.  She 
■wished,  oh  1  she  wished  that  she  had  not  come.     The  sense  of, 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — II  28T 

descending  trouble  was  so  strong  with  her  that  she  felt  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  that  she  was  going  to  prove  unequal  to 
her  task. 

Her  life  was  over  and  done  with !  Why  had  she  allowed 
herself  to  be  pushed  back  again  into  all  these  affairs  of  other 
people  ? 

She  was  ushered  into  a  square  lighted  hall  where  they  were 
all  having  tea  round  a  wide  open  fireplace.  She  was  con- 
scious of  Eachel  rising,  slim  and  tall,  to  greet  her,  of  the 
square  ruddy-faced  country-looking  man  who  gripped  her 
hand,  jolly  hard,  and  was,  of  course,  Sir  Roderick ;  of  a  hand- 
some, athletic-looking  girl  in  a  riding-habit,  of  a  man  or  two 
and  an  elderly  smartly  dressed  woman. 

They  were  all  immensely  cheerful  and  friendly  and  to  Liz- 
zie, white  and  tired,  noisy  and  horribly  robust.  She  would 
have  liked  to  have  slipped  up  to  her  room  and  stayed  there 
alone  until  dinner,  but  Rachel  said : 

"  Oh !  you  must  be  perished  after  that  wet  journey.  Tea's 
just  at  its  hottest  and  its  freshest.  Quick,  Roddy  —  the  toast 
—  Never  mind  the  rest  of  us.  Miss  Rand  —  just  drink  that 
tea  and  get  warm." 

They  allowed  her  to  sink  back  into  an  easy  chair  some- 
where in  the  shadow  and  the  tea  was  very  comforting  and  the 
stem  hall  with  its  crackling  fire  and  its  cosy  solid  shape  most 
friendly.  She  listened  to  them  all  noisily  discussing  people 
and  dances  and  horses  and  dinners.  She  watched  Rachel  Sed- 
don,  sitting  a  little  gravely,  straight  in  her  chair,  throwing  is*' 
a  word  now  and  again. 

This  was  the  woman.  .  .  .  This  was  the  woman.  .  .  . 

She  felt  a  warm  tongue  that  licked  her  hand.  She  looked 
down  and  saw  at  her  side  the  oddest  dog,  a  dog  like  a  mat, 
shapeless  with  two  brown  eyes  behind  its  hair  and  a  black  wet 
nose. 

There  was  something  about  the  eyes  and  the  way  that  the 
warm  body  was  pressed  against  her  dress  that  won  her  instant 
affection. 


288  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

"  What  an  adorable  animal  I  "  she  said  to  Roddy,  who  wag 
sitting  next  to  her. 

"  Oh !  Jacob !  "  he  said,  laughing.  "  He  really  oughtn't  to 
be  in  here  at  all  —  servants'  hall's  his  proper  place  —  If  you 
care  for  dogs,  Miss  Kand,  I'll  show  you  some " 

As  he  spoke  she  caught  the  dog's  eyes  and  saw  in  the  depths 
of  them  shame.  He  had  been  sitting,  very  square  and  u.p- 
right,  with  his  eyes  gravely  fixed,  with  great  interest,  upon  the 
company.  Then,  at  the  sound  of  Roddy's  voice  his  head  had 
dropped,  instantly  he  became  furtive,  his  eyes  searching  for 
eome  place  of  escape. 

Her  hand  caught  his  rough  coat  and  she  drew  him  to  her 
side  and  stroked  his  ears. 

"  I  think  he's  perfectly  delightful,"  she  said.  "  I'm  afraid 
I  prefer  mongrels  to  better  dogs." 

"  Do  you  really  ? "  said  Roddy,  looking  kindly  at  her. 
"  'Pon  my  word.  Miss  Rand,  I  must  show  you  my  little  lot. 
I  don't  think  you'll  have  much  use  for  that  animal  there  after- 
wards." 

At  last  the  girl  in  the  riding-habit  and  the  other  woman  and 
the  young  man  noisily  departed. 

Rachel  took  Lizzie  upstairs.  "  Are  you  sure,"  she  said, 
"  you'd  like  to  come  down  to  dinner  ?  Wouldn't  you  rather, 
to-night,  go  early  to  bed  and  have  it  there  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  Lady  Seddon."  Lizzie  looked  about  the 
room.  "  This  is  all  splendid,  thank  you.  I'm  not  a  bit 
tired." 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  said  Rachel,  searching  for  Liz* 
zie's  eyes.     But  Lizzie  had  turned  away. 

At  last  she  was  alone. 

Her  room  was  splendid  —  so  wide,  and  high,  and  such  a 
fire! 

She  flung  up  her  window.  There  the  Dovnis  were,  black, 
huge  before  her;  the  rain  came  down  hissing  from  the  sky 
and  a  smell  of  wet  earth  and  grass  stole  up  to  her. 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — II  289 

"  That's  the  woman  .  .  ."  she  said  again  to  herself  — 
"  What  shall  we  saj  to  one  another  ?  " 

Then  as  she  stared  into  the  fire  she  thought,  "  She  wants  me 
to  help  her." 

Afterwards  she  heard  a  scratching  at  the  door.  A  maid 
had  been  sent  to  her,  but  she  had  dismissed  her,  saying  that 
she  would  manage  for  herself. 

She  went  to  the  door  and  found  outside  it  the  shaggy, 
square  dog. 

He  walked  into  her  room,  sniffed  for  a  time  at  the  bed, 
pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  noise  that  the  fire  made,  listened  to 
the  sound  of  the  rain,  at  last  sat  down  in  a  distant  comer  with 
one  leg  stretched  at  right  angles  to  his  body  and  watched  her. 

She  was  indignant  with  herself  for  the  softness  in  her  heart 
that  his  company  brought  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XI 

RODDY  IS  MASTER 

**I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side, 

Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride. 

So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 
Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night  ?  " 

ROBEBT   BbOWNING. 


INTEOSPECTION  had  been  always  to  Roddy  a  thing  Tin« 
known.  He  had  never  regarded  himself  as  in  any  way 
different  from  the  other  men  whom  he  met,  and  he  would 
have  been  greatly  distressed  had  he  thought  that  he  woi  dif 
ferent. — "  What  you  writin'  fellers,"  he  had  once  said  to  Gar- 
den, "  can  find  amusin'  in  inventin'  people  for  I  can't  think  \ 
you've  gDt  to  make  'em  odd  for  people  to  be  interested  in  'em 
and  then  they  aren't  like  anyone." 

Now,  however,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  would  have 
been  glad  of  help  from  someone  who  knew  a  little  about  the 
motive  of  human  beings.  He  was  worried,  distressed,  per- 
plexed ;  slowly  his  temper  was  rising  —  a  temper  roused  by 
his  irritation  at  not  being  able  to  deal  with  the  situation. 

It  was  not  his  way  to  ask  for  help  from  anyone  and  he  al- 
ways had  all  the  inarticulate  self-confidence  of  the  healthy 
Englishman,  but  now,  as  the  days  crept  towards  Christmas  he 
was  increasingly  aware  that  something  must  soon  happen  to 
prevent  his  patience  giving  away. 

He  might  as  well  not  be  married  to  Rachel  at  all  —  and 
that  was  an  intolerable  position  for  him  as  husband,  as  lover, 
as  master  of  his  house.  Beyond  doubt,  he  knew  Rachel  less 
now  than  he  had  known  her  when  he  married  her.  Her  very 
kindness  to  him,  her  strange  alternations  of  silence  and  af- 
fection perplexed  him;  for  a  long  time  he  had  told  himself 

290 


RODDY  IS  MA-STER  291 

that  he  knew  that  she  did  not  love  him  and  that  he  must  make 
companionship  do,  but  ever  since  that  quarrel  about  Nita 
Raseley  the  division  between  them  had  grown  wider  and 
wider. 

Because  he  loved  her  he  had  been  very  patient  with  her  — 
very  patient  for  Roddy,  who  had  always  had  what  he  wanted 
and  shown  temper  if  he  were  refused. 

But  Roddy's  character  was  of  a  very  real  simplicity.  The 
men  and  women  and  animals  whom  he  had  known  had  also 
been,  for  the  most  part,  of  a  simple  character  and,  in  all  his 
life,  there  had  only  been  one  horse  and  two  women  who  had 
been  too  much  for  him,  and  even  these,  at  the  last,  he  had 
beaten  by  temper  and  dogged  determination. 

Rachel  was  utterly  beyond  him.  The  strange  way  that  she 
had  of  suddenly  becoming  quite  another  woman  baffled  him ; 
had  he  only  not  loved  her  he  was  sure  that  it  would  have  been 
easier,  much  easier. 

But  now,  as  the  days  passed  at  Seddon,  his  irritation 
thrived.  Women  were  all  the  same.  They  seemed  obstinate 
enough,  but  there  was  nothing  like  brute  force  to  bring  them 
to  heel.  He  was  growing  surly  —  cross  with  the  servants  and 
the  animals.  He  didn't  sleep.  His  discontent  made  him 
silent  so  that,  when  they  were  alone,  instead  of  talking  to  her 
and  interesting  her  and  winning  her,  perhaps,  in  that  way,  he 
would  sit  and  look  at  her  and  answer  her  in  monosyllables, 
and,  afterwards,  would  be  furious  with  himself  for  behaving 
so  absurdly. 

This  trouble  sent  him  out  of  doors  and  away  over  the 
Downs  on  his  horse.  Fiercely  he  hurled  himself  into  his 
fields  and  lanes  and  farms,  getting  up  sometimes  very  early 
and  riding  out  to  some  distant  place,  thinking  always,  as  he 
rode,  of  Rachel  and  what  he  was  to  do. 

His  devotion  for  the  country  round  Seddon,  a  devotion  that 
had  stirred  his  heart  since  his  first  conscious  sight  of  the 
outside  world,  nobly  now  rewarded  him.  The  land  seemed 
to  understand  that  he  was  suffering,  and  drew  closer  to  him 


»92  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

and  watclied  him  with  gentle  and  loving  eyes,  and  soothed  his 
soul. 

Before  Christmas  there  came  some  sharp,  frosty  mornings ; 
he  would  go  out  very  early  and  would  see,  first,  the  garden,  the 
lawn  crisp  and  white,  the  grey  jagged  wall  that  divided  his 
land  from  the  sweeping  Downs,  the  grey  house  behind  him 
so  square  and  solid  and  comfortable.  At  the  end  of  the  gar- 
den away  from  the  road  there  was  an  old  iron  gate  with  stone 
pillars,  and  upon  these  pillars  sat  old  stone  gryphons.  These 
gryphons  had  been  there  since  long  ago  and  he  liked  the  friend- 
liness of  their  faces,  the  strength  of  their  crouching  bodies  and 
the  way  that  they  would  look  out  so  patiently,  over  a  great 
expanse  of  fields  and  hedges,  until  their  gaze  rested  on  the 
white  chalk  hollows  in  the  rising  hills  away  behind  Lewes. 

Eoddy,  standing  with  the  Downs  so  immediately  behind 
him  and  this  green  spread  of  land  in  front  of  him,  was  always 
conscious  of  happiness.  Here  he  was  at  home.  He  knew 
those  fields,  the  streams  that  ran  through  them,  the  farmers, 
the  labourers,  the  horses  and  dogs  that  lived  upon  them.  No 
fear  here  that  "  one  of  those  clever  fellers  "  would  wonder 
£t  his  stupidity,  no  sudden  "  letting  you  down  "  or  "  showing 
you  up."  Behind  him  was  his  house,  before  him  the  land  that 
be  had  always  known;  here  he  was  safe. 

He  had,  too,  beyond  this,  some  unformulated  recognition 
of  a  service  and  a  worship  that  here  he  was  called  on  to  pay. 
He  had  always  declared  that  he  could  understand  those 
Johnnies  who  worshipped  the  sun  and  the  earth.  "  Damn  it 
all  —  there's  something  to  catch  on  to  there." —  He  did  not,  in 
his  heart,  believe  in  all  this  civilization,  this  preserving  of  the 
sick  and  tending  of  the  maimed  and  halt.  "  You've  got  to 
clear  out  if  you're  broken  up  "  was  his  opinion.  "  If  you 
can't  do  your  bit,  can't  see  or  smell  or  anything,  you're  just 
in  the  way." —  What  he  meant  was  that  the  halt  and  maimed 
were  simply  insults  to  the  vigour  and  vitality  of  his  fields  and 
sky. 


RODDY  IS  MASTER  293 

But  indeed,  what  would  he  have  done  during  these  days 
liad  he  not  had  his  riding,  farms  to  visit,  shepherds  and  far- 
mers for  company  ?  At  first  Rachel  had  ridden  vsrith  him  and 
they  had  heen  closer  together  during  those  rides  than  at  any 
other  time,  but  lately  she  had  refused,  on  one  excuse  or  an- 
other, to  come  with  him. 

He  went  a  good  deal  now  to  other  houses,  but  it  was  awk- 
ward because  Rachel  would  not  come  with  him.  She  asked 
people  to  Seddon  and  was  charming  when  they  came,  but  she 
would  not  often  go  out  with  him  when  the  country  people 
invited  them. 

Since  the  Wxio.  Raseley  episode  he  had  thought  that  she 
might  show  jealousy  did  he  ride  and  drive  with  some  girl  in 
the  country.  He  hoped  that  she  would  be  jealous,  that  would 
have  filled  him  with  tingling  happiness  —  but  no,  she  seemed 
to  be  glad  that  he  should  find  someone  who  could  take  her 
place. 

Over  all  these  things  he  brooded  and  brooded.  He  would 
look  at  his  old  friendly  gryphons  and  feel,  in  some  dumb  con- 
fused way,  that  they  were  being  insulted. — "  Poor  old  b^gars 
—  I  bet  she  doesn't  know  they're  there  " —  And  through  all  of 
this,  he  loved  her  more  and  more,  and  was,  daily,  more 
wretched  and  unhappy. 

n 

The  coming  of  Miss  Rand  puzzled  him.  He  had,  of  course, 
known  of  her  for  a  long  time  — "  Adela  Beaminster's  secre- 
tary, most  capable  woman,  simply  runs  the  whole  place." — 
As  a  human  being  she  simply  did  not  occur  to  him. 

IN'ow  she  seemed  to  be  the  one  person  whom  Rachel  wished 
to  know.  Another  instance  of  Rachel's  unexpectedness. 
When  Lizzie  came  he  was  still  more  astonished.  This  tidy, 
trim  little  woman  looked  as  though  she  ought  always  to  have 
a  typewriter  by  her  side;  her  shai^  eyes  were  always  rest- 
lessly discovering  things  that  were  out  of  order.     Roddy 


294  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

found  himself  fingering  his  tie  and  patting  his  hair  when  she 
was  with  him  —  not,  he  would  have  supposed,  the  sort  of 
woman  for  whom  Rachel  would  have  cared. 

Then  after  a  while  he  discovered  another  astonishing  thing. 
Miss  Rand  did  not  like  his  wife,  did  not  like  her  at  all.  He 
watched  and  fancied  that  Rachel  soon  discovered  this  and  was 
doing  her  utmost  to  force  Miss  Rand  to  like  her. 

Miss  Rand  was  always  pleasant  and  polite ;  she  was  an  im- 
mense help  about  dinners  and  this  dance  that  was  to  be  given 
early  in  the  'New  Year,  but  she  yielded  to  none  of  Rachel's 
advances,  was  always  reserved,  unresponsive. 

Roddy  was  afraid  of  her  but  believed  in  her.  She  liked 
animals  and  loved  the  house  and  the  Downs  and  the  country. 
— "  She's  all  clean  and  bright  and  hard,"  he  thought ;  "  no 
emotion  about  her,  no  sentiment  there.  A  man  'ud  have  a 
stiff  time  love-makin'  with  her." 

But  it  gradually  appeared  that,  whatever  her  feelings  might 
be  towards  Rachel,  she  was  ready  to  like  Roddy.  She  walked 
with  him,  asked  him  sensible  questions,  listened  attentively  to 
his  rather  lumbering  explanations.  After  a  time,  he  almost 
forgot  that  she  was  a  woman  at  all  — "  Damn  sensible  and  yet 
she  never  makes  you  feel  a  fool." 

He  liked  her  very  much,  though  she  obviously  preferred 
Jacob,  the  mongrel,  to  all  other  dogs  in  the  place.  He  won- 
dered as  the  days  passed  whether  she  might  not  help  him  with 
Rachel.  He  would  not  speak  to  anyone  living  about  his  own 
feelings  for  Rachel  and  his  unhappiness,  but  he  thought  that, 
perhaps,  in  a  roundabout  way,  he  might  obtain  from  Miss 
Rand  some  general  wisdom  that  he  could  apply  to  his  especial 
case. 

The  afternoon  of  Christmas  Eve  was  cold  and  foggy  and 
Roddy  and  Lizzie  sat  over  the  fire  in  the  hall  waiting  for 
Rachel,  who  had  gone  out  for  a  solitary  walk.  Roddy  look- 
ing at  his  companion  approved  of  the  sharp  delicate  little  face 
with  the  firelight  touching  it  to  colour  and  shadow;  her  dress 
was  grey  with  a  tiny  brooch  of  old  gold  at  her  throat,  and  she 


RODDY  IS  MASTER  295 

wore  one  ring  of  small  pearls ;  the  look  of  her  gave  him  pleas- 
ure. 

"  I  wonder,"  Miss  Rand  said,  "  that  you  don't  go  where 
you'll  get  better  hunting  —  you  don't  hunt  round  here  at  all, 
do  you?" 

"  A  bit " —  Roddy  looked  gravely  at  the  fire  — "  I  go  very 
little  though.  You  see,  Miss  Rand,  it's  a  case  of  bein'  born 
down  here  and  likin'  the  place,  don't  you  know.  Of  course 
I'd  love  to  have  been  bom  in  a  huntin'  country,  but  bein'  here 
I've  got  fond  of  it,  you  see,  and  wouldn't  leave  it  for  any 
huntin'  anywhere." 

She  looked  at  him  sharply :  "  You  do  love  the  place  very 
much  —  I  envy  you  that." 

Even  as  she  spoke  her  consciousness  of  "  the  place  "  faced 
her ;  she  had  always  known  that  she  was  more  acutely  aware 
of  the  personality  of  her  surroundings  than  were  most  of  her 
friends,  but  her  experience  here  was  different  from  anything 
that  she  had  ever  known  before. 

She  remembered  that  in  the  train  she  had  been  warned 
of  some  coming  event  and  now,  sitting  opposite  to  Roddy 
beside  the  blazing  fire,  she  was  sharply  and  definitely  fright- 
ened. 

Rachel  had  already  appealed  to  her ;  Roddy  was  appealing 
to  her  now,  but  stronger  than  either  of  these  demands  was 
some  force  in  herself,  warning  her  and  raising  in  her  the  most 
conflicting,  disturbing  emotions. 

The  very  silence  of  the  house  about  them,  the  long  green 
stretches  of  the  level  fields,  came  almost  personally  and  pre- 
sented themselves  to  her,  and  in  her  heart,  growing  with 
every  moment  of  passing  time,  was  her  hatred  of  Rachel  and, 
from  that,  tenderness  for  Roddy,  who  could  thus  be  left,  so 
pathetically  unhappy,  so  eloquently  without  words  that  might 
express  his  unhappiness. 

Something  she  knew  was  soon  to  occur  that  would  involve 
all  three  of  them  in  a  common  crisis. 

It  was  almost  as  though  she  must  leap  to  her  feet  and  cry 


^96  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

to  the  startled  and  innocent  Roddy,  "  Look  out  I  "  her  fingef 
pointing  at  the  closed  door  behind  him. 

Meanwhile  Roddy  had  been  considering  her.  She  said  that 
she  envied  him  the  place.  That  was  pleasant  of  her,  and  he 
warmed  to  the  urgency  with  which  she  had  said  it.  If  she 
felt  in  that  way  about  such  things,  why  then,  all  the  more,  he 
thought,  he  could  speak  to  her  about  his  trouble  with  Rachel. 
Perhaps,  too,  although  this  he  would  not  admit  to  himself  — • 
his  conviction  that  Lizzie  disliked  Rachel  gave  him  more  cour- 
age. 

Everyone  thought  Rachel  so  wonderful  —  wonderful  of 
course  she  was,  but  a  complete  sense  of  that  wonder  must 
blind  the  looker-on  to  Roddy's  point  of  view. 

"  Places,"  he  said  moodily,  "  ain't  everythin' —  course  / 
love  this  old  bit  o'  ground,  but  when  you  love  anything  a  lot 
you're  disappointed  because  every  feller  don't  see  it  exactly 
as  you  do." 

Lizzie  looked  at  him. 

"  I  should  have  thought,  though.  Sir  Roderick,  that  you 
were  a  very,  very  happy  person." 

Roddy  considered,  then  slowly  shook  his  head  — "  'No,  Miss 
Rand,  not  exactly  —  no,  you  know,  I  shouldn't  say  that 
exactly  —  but  then,  I  suppose,  no  man  on  this  earth  is  abso- 
lutely happy." 

"  Well,"  said  Lizzie,  "  a  great  many  people  would  envy 
you  —  your  health,  your  home,  your  wife,  you've  got  a  good 
deal,  Sir  Roderick." 

As  she  spoke  her  anxiety  to  help  him  seized  and  held  her. 
He  wanted  advice  so  badly,  advice  that  she  could  give  him, 
and  this  English  strain  in  him  prevented  him  from  speak- 
ing. Had  she  gone  more  deeply  into  her  motives  she  would 
have  known  that  her  anger  with  Rachel,  even  more  actively 
prompted,  it  seemed,  by  the  stones  and  the  fields  and  the 
hills  around  her,  was  urging  her  interference. 

"  People  envy  me,"  said  Roddy,  "  but  then,  Miss  Rand, 
people  don't  know.     It's  all  my  own  fault,  mind  you,  that 


EODDY  IS  MASTER  297 

I'm  not  perfectly  happy.  It's  all  because  I'm  such  a  fool, 
not  able  to  see  what  people  are  gettin'  at,  always  blunderin* 
in  at  the  wrong  moment  and  blunderin'  out  again  when  I 
ought  to  be  stayin'  in,  and  that  sort  o'  thing.  I  used  to 
think,"  he  concluded,  "  that  all  the  talk  about  people's  feel- 
in's,  studying  them  and  so  on,  was  rot,  but  now  I'm  not  so 
sure.     I'd  give  anythin' — "  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"  It  is  all  rot,"  Lizzie  said  sharply  — "  I  can  only  speak 
as  a  woman,  of  course,  but  I  know  that  what  every  woman 
ever  bom  into  this  world  has  wanted  is  just  to  be  taken 
by  someone  stronger  than  herself  and  be  beaten  or  kissed, 
loved  or  strangled  as  the  case  may  be.  Believe  me,  it 
is  so." 

Roddy  looked  at  her,  some  new  thought,  perhaps  a  pro- 
logue to  some  new  determination,  shining  from  his  eyes. 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  said.  "  I  believe  you're  right,  Miss 
Rand  —  I  do  indeed.     Every  woman,  would  you  say  ?  " 

"  Every  woman,"  said  Lizzie  firmly. 

Their  eyes  met.  The  sure  steadiness  of  her  gaze,  the 
way  that  she  sat  there,  her  little  body  so  sure  and  resolute, 
her  very  neat  composure  an  argument  against  lightheaded 
reasoning,  encouraged  him  beyond  any  help  that  he  had  yet 
found. 

Their  gaze  seemed  long  and  intimate;  the  colour  rose  and 
flushed  his  brown  cheeks  and  into  his  eyes  there  crept  that 
consciousness  of  a  victory  about  to  be  won,  although  the 
odds  were  hard  against  him.  The  door  opened  behind  him 
and  he  turned  at  the  sound  and  saw  that  Rachel  had 
come  in. 

Her  entry  gave  him  now,  as  it  always  did,  a  conviction 
that  during  her  absence  he  hadn't  had  the  least  idea  as  to 
how  splendid  she  really  was.  She  brought  into  that  little 
stone  hall  a  wild  colour,  a  strong,  fine  challenge  to  anything 
small,  or  shackled  or  conventional. 

Her  walk  had  given  her  cheeks  a  flame,  the  black  furs 
roimd  her  throat,  the  black  coat  falling  below  her  knees,  a 


298  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

red  feather  in  her  round  black  fur  cap,  all  these  things  set 
off  and  accentuated  the  brilliant  fire  and  energy  of  her 
eyes. 

As  she  came  towards  them  then  so  splendid  was  she  that 
Lizzie  was  herself  for  an  instant  lost  in  admiration  —  She 
lit  the  hall,  she  lit  the  house,  she  lit  the  country  and  the 
evening  sky. 

To  Roddy,  as  he  looked  at  her,  there  stole  the  spirit  of 
some  pagan  ancestor  telling  him  that  here  was  his  capture, 
that  this  fine  creature  was  his  to  bind,  to  burden,  to  chas- 
tise, as  his  lordly  pleasure  might  be. 

Rachel,  meanwhile,  had  come  in  from  her  walk,  unap- 
peased,  unsated;  the  exertion  had  only  succeeded  in  stirring 
in  her  a  deeper,  more  urgent  uneasiness.  During  these  last 
weeks  she  had  known  no  moment  of  peace.  She  had  come 
down  to  Seddon  determined  to  do  her  duty  to  Roddy;  she 
had  found  that  at  every  turn  her  duty  to  Roddy  involved 
more  than  any  determination  could  force  her  to  give. 

She  had  not  known  what  that  last  interview  with  Breton 
would  do  to  every  situation  that  followed  it.  It  seemed  to 
lier  then  that  those  last  words  with  him  would  make  her  duty 
plain,  they  had  only  made  her  duty  harder. 

She  could  not  now  act,  think,  sleep,  move  but  that  last 
kiss,  those  last  words  of  his,  that  last  vision  of  him  standing, 
struggling  so  finely  for  control  —  these  things  pursued  her, 
caught  her  eyes  and  held  them. 

All  her  duty  to  Roddy  could  not  hide  from  her  now  that 
she  had,  at  one  flaming  instant,  known  what  life  at  its  most 
intense  could  be.  She  had  felt  the  fire  —  how  cold  to  her 
now  these  antechambers,  these  passages  so  chill,  so  far  from 
that  inner  room.  Lizzie  had  then  occurred  to  her  as  the 
strongest  person  she  knew.  She  sent  for  Lizzie,  found  in- 
stantly that  Lizzie  disliked  her,  suspected  then  that  Lizzie 
knew  about  Breton. 

She  knew  Lizzie  for  her  enemy.  .  .  .  During  the  last 
week  also  she  had  detected  a  new  attitude  in  Roddy ;  she  had 


KODDY  IS  MASTER  290 

felt  in  him  some  active  growing  impatience  that  quite  defi- 
nitely threatened  her  safety.  That  wild  lawlessness  in 
Eoddy  that  she  had  always  known,  that  had  produced  the 
Nita  episode  and  others,  was  now  turning  towards  herself. 

But  most  of  all  did  she  fear  her  thoughts  of  Breton.  She 
drove  him  again  and  again  and  again  from  her  mind,  she 
called  all  her  strength,  mental,  moral,  and  physical,  to  her 
aid  —  always,  with  a  smile,  with  one  glance  from  his  eyes 
he  defeated  her. 

Day  and  night  he  was  with  her,  and  yet  at  her  heart  she 
did  not  even  now  know  whether  it  were  Francis  Breton 
whom  she  loved,  or  the  life  with  Roddy,  the  whole  Beamin- 
ster  scheme  of  things  that  she  hated.  Every  day  it  seemed 
to  her  that  Lizzie  was  more  watchful,  Roddy  more  impa- 
tient, Breton  more  insistent  —  but  afraid  of  them  all  as  she 
was,  fear  of  herself  gave  her  the  sharpest  terror. 

She  rang  for  tea,  reproached  them  because  they  had 
waited  for  her.  Then  they  were  —  all  three  of  them  — 
silent. 

One  of  the  footmen  brought  in  the  five  o'clock  post  with 
the  tea  and  laid  Rachel's  letters  on  the  table  at  her  side. 

Lizzie  had  leant  across  the  table  for  something  and  saw, 
as  though  fiashed  to  her  by  some  special  designing  Provi- 
dence, that  the  letter  on  the  top  of  the  pile  was  in  Francis 
Breton's  handwriting. 

Rachel,  busied  with  tea,  had  not  looked  down.  Now  she 
did  so;  the  handwriting  rose,  as  though  she  had  at  that 
instant  heard  his  step  beyond  the  room,  and  filled  first  her 
eyes,  then  her  cheeks,  then  her  heart. 

Her  eyes  met  Lizzie's  and  for  the  barest  moment  of  time 
their  challenges  met.  Rachel  seemed  to  hesitate,  then, 
gathering  up  her  letters,  looked  round  at  Roddy  and  said, 
"  I  think  I'll  just  go  up  and  take  my  things  off,  this  fire's 
hotter  than  I  expected  —  I'll  be  back  in  a  moment." 

She  walked  slowly  across  the  room  and  up  the  broad 
staircase. 


800  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

m 

She  did  not  switch  on  the  light.  The  evening  dusk  left 
the  room  cool  and  dim,  but  by  the  window,  standing  so  that 
green  shadows  met  the  grey  and  through  them  both  a  pale 
light  trembled  before  it  vanished,  she  took  the  letter  in  her 
hand,  allowing  the  others  to  drop  and  be  scattered,  white, 
on  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

She  held  the  envelope;  he  had  written  and  he  had  sworn 
to  her  that  he  would  not  do  so  —  she  should  have  been  furi- 
ous at  his  broken  word,  scornful  of  him  for  his  weakness, 
indignant  at  his  treating  her  so  lightly. 

But  she  could  not  think  of  that  now,  she  could  only  think 
of  the  letter.  The  envelope  was  so  precious  to  her  that  it 
seemed  to  return  the  caress  that  his  fingers  gave  it  and  to 
have  of  itself  some  especial  individuality.  She  traced  hi? 
hand  on  the  address,  treasured  every  line  and  mark,  and 
then  at  last  tore  it  open.  It  was  not  a  very  long  letter. 
He  had  written  to  her; 

"  You  will  despise  me  for  breaking  my  word.  Per- 
haps you  won't  read  this  —  but  I  can't  help  it,  I  cant 
help  it,  and  even  if  I  could  I  don't  think  that  I  would. 
I  know  that  my  writing  to  you  is  just  another  of  the  rash, 
foolish,  silly  weak  things  that  I've  gone  on  doing  all  my 
life,  but  let  it  be  so.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  fine  or  brave 
and  I  have  tried  all  these  weeks,  tried  harder  than  you 
can  know.  I've  written  to  you  every  day  letter  after 
letter,  and  torn  them  up  —  torn  them  all  up.  I've  fan- 
cied that  perhaps  you've  forgotten  by  now  and  then  I've 
known  that  you've  not  and  then  I've  known  that  it  were 
better  if  you  did. 

I  love  you  so  madly  that  — (here  he  had  scratched  some 
words  out) —  I  must  tell  you  that  I  love  you  so  that  you 
can  hear  me  and  not  only  my  walls  and  furniture  and  my 
own  self.     I'm  trying  not  to  be  selfish.     I  know  that  Vm 


RODDY  IS  MASTER  301 

doing  something  now  that  is  hard  on  you,  but  my  silence 
is  eating  me,  thrusting,  killing  —  I  shall  be  better  soon 
—  I  will  be  sensible  —  soon  —  I  will  be 

But  now,  oh,  my  darling !  for  a  moment  at  least  I  have 
caught  you  and  held  you  throbbing  against  me,  and  put 
my  hands  in  your  hair  and  stroked  your  cheeks  and  kissed 
your  eyes. 

Don't  write  to  me  if  you  must  not,  don't  be  angry  with 
me  for  this. 

I  will  try  not  to  break  my  word  again." 

As  the  letter  ended  so  silence  came  back  into  the  room 
that  had  been  beating  and  throbbing  with  sound. 

The  pale  light  had  gone,  only  the  Downs  were  dim  grey 
shapes  against  a  darker  sky  —  the  ripple  of  some  water 
slipping  and  falling  came  from  the  garden. 

The  letter  fell  from  her  hands  and  lay  white  with  the 
others  on  the  floor. 

She  tumbled  on  to  her  knees  by  the  window  and  her  heart 
was  the  strangest  confusion  of  triumph  and  fear,  exaltation 
and  shame. 

For  a  little  time  she  lay  there  and  felt  that  she  was  in  his 
arms  and  that  his  lips  were  on  her  mouth  and  that  her  hand 
pressed  his  cheek. 

She  got  up,  turned  on  the  lights,  took  off  her  walking 
things,  brushed  her  hair  and  washed  her  hands,  picked  up 
the  other  letters,  but  put  his  in  the  inside  of  her  dress  — 
then  went  down  to  the  others. 

IV 

She  found  Lizzie  sitting  alone  — "  Where's  Roddy  ?  " 

Lizzie  looked  up  at  her.  "  He  had  to  go  and  see  about  a 
horse  or  something." 

Rachel  came  down  to  the  table  and  poured  out  some  tea 
and  then  sat  smiling  at  Lizzie;  Lizzie  smiled  back. 

"  I  hope  you  liked  your  walk," 


'302  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

"  Yes,  there's  a  storm  coining  up.  You've  no  idea  how 
deeply  one  gets  to  care  for  these  Downs  —  their  quiet  and 
their  size." 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  and  then  Eachel  said : 

"  Miss  Eand  —  I  do  hope  —  that  this  really  has  been 
something  of  a  holiday  for  you,  being  here,  away  from  all 
your  London  work !  " 

Lizzie's  eyes  were  sharp  — "  Yes  —  It's  delightful  for 
me.     The  first  holiday  I've  had  for  years.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  think  it  impulsive  of  me  —  but  I've  asked  you 
here  hoping  that  we'd  get  to  know  one  another  better.  I've 
wanted  to  know  you,  to  have  you  for  a  friend  —  for  a  long 
time.  I've  always  admired  so  immensely  the  way  that 
you've  helped  Aunt  Adela  —  done  things  that  I  could  never 
possibly  have  done " 

She  stopped,  but  Lizzie  said  nothing  —  Then  she  went 
on  more  uncertainly  — 

"  You  see,  I  hoped  that  perhaps  you'd  teach  me  a  lit- 
tle order  and  method.  I've  married  so  young  —  I'd 
hoped  .  .  ."  Then  almost  desperately  — "  But  you  know, 
Miss  Eand,  I  don't  feel  as  though  your  coming  here  has 
helped  us  to  know  one  another  any  better." 

The  storm  had  come  up  and  the  sky  beyond  the  house  was 
black.  Lizzie's  face,  lighted  by  the  fire,  was  white,  sharp 
and  set  —  there  was  no  kindness  in  her  eyes. 

"  Perhaps,  Lady  Rachel,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I'm  not  a 
very  emotional  kind  of  woman.  If  one's  worked,  as  I  have, 
since  one  was  small  —  had  to  earn  one's  living  and  fight  for 
one's  place  —  it  makes  one  perhaps  rather  self-reliant  and 
independent  of  other  people  —  Our  lives  have  been  so  dif- 
ferent, I'm  afraid,"  she  added  with  a  little  laugh,  "  that  I'm 
a  dried-up,  unsatisfactory  kind  of  person  —  I  know  that 
my  mother  and  sister  have  always  found  me  so." 

"  Yes,"    Rachel   said,    "  our   lives    have    been    different. 
Perhaps  if  mine  had  been  a  little  more  like  yours  —  per- 
haps if  I  had  had  to  work  for  my  living  —  I  .  .  ." 


RODDY  IS  MASTER  300 

She  broke  off  —  a  little  catch  was  in  her  voice  —  she  rose 
from  her  chair  and  went  to  the  window  and  stood  there,  withi 
her  back  to  Lizzie,  gazing  into  the  darkening  garden. 

She  knew  that  Lizzie  had  repulsed  her;  she  was  hardly 
aware  why  she  had  made  her  appeal,  but  she  was  now 
frightened  of  Lizzie  and  to  her  overstrung  brain  it  seemed 
that  she  could  now  see  Lizzie  and  Roddy  in  league  against 
lier. 

She  heard  a  step  and  turning  round  found  Peters,  the  but- 
ler, large,  square,  of  an  immense  impassivity. 

"  Please,  my  lady,  might  I  speak  to  you  a  moment  ? " 

She  went  out. 

Lizzie,  left  in  the  darkening  room,  could  think  now  only 
of  the  letter.  The  sight  of  that  handwriting  had  stirred  in 
her  passions  that  she  had  never  before  imagined  as  hers  — 
that  first  pathetic  appeal  of  Roddy  and  then  the  sight  of 
that  letter! 

Her  brain,  working  feverishly,  showed  her  the  words  that 
that  letter  would  contain  —  the  passion,  the  passion !  There 
in  the  very  face  of  her  husband,  Rachel  was  receiving  letters 
from  her  lover,  letters  that  she  could  not  wait  a  moment  to 
read,  but  must  go  instantly  and  open  ihem. 

This  hour  brought  to  a  crisis  Lizzie's  agony.  Had  such  a 
letter  been  written  to  her! 

She  tortured  herself  now  with  the  picture  of  him  as  he  sat 
there  in  his  room  in  Saxton  Square  writing  it!  It  ap- 
peared to  her  now  as  though  they  two  —  there  in  the  very 
throne  of  their  triumphant  love  —  had  plotted  this  insult, 
this  snap  of  the  fingers,  to  show  her,  Lizzie  Rand,  how  des- 
olate, how  lonely,  how  neglected  and  unwanted  she  was! 

That  then,  after  this,  Rachel  should  appeal  to  her  for 
friendship !     The  cruel  insult  of  it. 

She  felt  as  she  heard  the  fast  drops  of  rain  lash  the  win- 
dow-frames, that  no  revenge  that  she  could  secure  would 
satisfy  her  thirst  for  it. 


304  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 


Roddy,  meanwhile,  had  gone  out  to  the  stables.  That 
little  talk  with  Lizzie  had  determined  a  resolution  that  had 
been  growing  now  within  him  for  many  weeks. 

That  little  woman,  with  her  assured  air  and  neat  little 
ways,  knew  what  she  was  about  —  knew  moreover  what  oth- 
ers were  about.  She  had  watched  and  had  given  him  the 
tip  —  He  would  take  it. 

Roddy's  mind  was  o£  far  too  simple  an  order  to  admit  of 
more  than  one  point  of  view  at  a  time.  He  saw  Rachel  now 
as  a  dog  or  horse,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond,  who  needed, 
nevertheless,  stem  discipline.  He  wondered  now  how  it 
was  that  he  had  allowed  himself  for  so  long  to  remain  inde- 
cisive. 

"  London  muddles  a  feller,"  he  concluded ;  "  the  coun- 
try's the  place  for  clear  thinkin'." 

He  looked  at  his  horses  with  great  satisfaction,  they  were 
in  splendid  condition  —  he  had  never  known  them  better. 
He  also  was  in  splendid  condition  —  never  been  better. 

As  he  walked  away  from  the  stables  and  turned  towards 
the  end  of  the  garden  bounded  by  the  gryphons  and  the 
Btone  gate,  he  felt  his  body  at  its  most  supreme  perfection. 
He  thought,  on  that  afternoon,  that  he  was  strong  enough 
for  anything,  and  perhaps  never  before  in  his  life  had  he 
been  so  conscious  of  the  glories  of  physical  things ;  of  all  that 
it  meant  to  have  fine  muscles  and  a  strong  heart  and  lungs 
of  the  best  and  thews  and  sinews  as  good  as  "  any  feller's." 

"  I'm  strong  enough  for  anythin' "     He  turned  back 

his  arm  and  felt  his  muscle.  He  cocked  his  head  with  a  lit- 
tle conceited  gesture  of  satisfaction  — "  I  was  gettin'  a  bit 
fat  in  London  —  got  rid  of  all  that." 

To  walk,  to  ride,  to  fight,  to  swim,  to  eat  and  sleep,  to  love 
women  and  drink  strong  drink!     God!  what  a  world! 

And  then,  beyond  it  all,  Rachel,  Rachel,  Rachel!  He 
had  her  now  —  she  should  be  under  his  hand,  she  should  be 


RODDY  IS  MASTER  805 

Hs  as  she  had  never  been  since  the  first  week  of  their  mar* 
riage. 

"  No  more  nonsense,  by  God !  "  he  said  triumphantly  to 
himself  — "  no  more  nonsense." 

He  leaned  on  the  stone  gate  and  looked  out  over  the  fields 

—  The  gryphons  regarded  him  benevolently. 

He  was  conscious,  as  he  stood  there,  of  the  Duchess — • 
what  was  the  old  lady  doing  ?  He'd  like  to  see  her.  He  felt 
more  in  sympathy  with  her  than  he  had  been  for  a  long 
time  past.  "  She's  right  after  all.  You've  got  to  stand  up 
and  run  people.     No  use  just  lettin'  them  handle  you." 

There  was  a  storm  coming  up.  The  white  lights  of  the 
higher  sky  were  being  closed  down  by  black  blocks  of  cloud 
that  spread,  from  one  to  another,  merging  far  on  the  horizon 
above  the  hills  into  driving  lines  of  rain.  The  white  chalk 
hollows  above  Lewes  stood  out  sharp  and  clear;  the  dark 
green  of  the  fields  was  now  a  dull  grey,  the  hedges  were 
dark  and  a  thin  stream  that  cut  the  flat  surface  of  the  plain 
was  black  like  ink. 

Roddy  welcomed  the  storm.  Had  he  been  superstitious 
the  physical  energy  that  now  pervaded  him  might  have 
frightened  him.  He  felt  as  though  with  one  raising  of  his 
arm  he  could  hold  up  those  black  clouds  and  keep  them  off. 
The  rain  and  the  wind  had  not  more  force  than  he  — 

Life  was  a  vast  psean  of  strength  — "  The  weak  must  go  *' 

—  He  was,  at  this  hour,  Lord  of  Creation. 

As  he  went  back  to  the  house  the  rain  met  him  and 
whipped  his  cheek. 

"  By  Gad,  I'd  like  to  find  the  old  lady  sittin'  in  the  house, 
waitin'  for  a  chat,"  he  thought 

When  he  came  down  to  dinner,  he  came  as  one  who  rules 
the  world.  That  simple  clear  light  was  in  his  eyes  that  was 
always  there  when  he  had  found  the  solution  to  something 
that  perplexed  him.  His  expression  too  was  one  that  be- 
longed to  Rachel's  earlier  experience  of  him,  one  that  she 
had  not  seen  on  his  face  for  a  long  time  past.     His  strong 


30e  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

but  rather  stupid  mouth  had  somewhere  in  its  comers  the 
suspicion  of  a  smile.  His  chin  stuck  out  rather  obstinately 
—  the  light  in  the  eyes,  the  smile,  the  set  lips,  these  things 
revealed  the  old  Roddy. 

After  dinner  Lizzie  went  off  to  her  room. 

For  a  while  Roddy  and  Rachel  sat  there  —  She  read  some 
book,  her  eyes  often  leaving  the  page  and  staring  into  the 
fire. 

Then  she  got  up  and  said  good  night.  She  came  over 
and  bent  down  and  kissed  him.  He  caught  her  arm  and 
held  her. 

"  I  say,  old  girl,  it's  time  we  had  the  same  room  again  — 
much  more  convenient."  He  heard  her  catch  her  breath 
and  felt  her  tremble.  She  tried  to  draw  her  arm  away,  but 
he  held  her. 

"Oh!  but  soon,  Roddy  —  Yes  —  but  not  just  now  — 
I '' 

"  Yes  —  now.  I'll  see  about  it  to-morrow.*'  She  stepped 
back  from  him,  dragging  herself  away,  and  then  put  her 
hand  to  her  forehead  with  a  desperate  gesture. 

"  :N'o,  no  —  not " 

He  got  up  and  smiling,  swaying  a  little,  faced  her  — 

"  Yes  —  I've  made  up  my  mind  —  all  this  business  has 
got  to  come  to  an  end  —  Been  goin'  long  enough." 

"  What  business  ?  " 

"  Seein'  nothing  of  you  —  nothing  from  momin'  till  night. 
You  know,  old  girl,  it  isn't  fair  —  if  we  didn't  care  about 
one  another " 

"  Yes,  I  know  —  but  don't  let's  discuss  it  to-night.  I'm 
tired,  headachy  —  this  storm " 

He  said  nothing  —  She  looked  at  him  and  at  the  steady 
stare  in  his  eyes  and  the  smile  at  his  mouth  turned  away. 

She  moved  towards  the  door  —  He  said  nothing,  but  his 
eyes  followed  ber. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said,  turning  round  to  him  —  but  he 
still  said  nothing,  only  stood  there  very  square  and  set. 


RODDY  IS  MASTER  SOY 

For  a  long  time  he  sat,  looking  into  the  fire  —  Then  he 
"went  up  to  his  room  and  very  slowly  undressed.  After- 
wards he  came  out,  carefully  closing  the  door  behind  him, 
then,  in  dressing-gown  and  pyjamas,  went  down  the  passage 
to  Rachel's  door. 

The  house  was  very  still,  but  the  storm  was  raging  and  the 
boughs  of  some  tree  hit,  with  fierce  protesting  taps,  a  win- 
dow at  the  passage-end. 

He  knocked  at  her  door,  waited,  then  heard  her  ask  who 
was  there. 

"  It's  I,  Roddy,"  he  said.  There  was  a  pause,  then  the 
door  was  opened.  He  came  in  and  stood  in  the  doorway. 
Rachel  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  face  very  white,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him. 

"  I'm  sleepin'  here  to-night,  Rachel,"  he  said. 

Her  voice  was  a  whisper  — "  ^N^o,  Roddy  —  no  --'  not  — 
not " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  firmly. 

"  'No,  not  to-night." 

"  Yes  —  to-night  —  now." 

He  walked  carefully  across  the  room,  took  off  his  dress- 
ing-gown, and  hung  it  over  a  chair.  He  looked  about  the 
room. 

"  Too  much  light " —  he  said  and,  going  to  the  door, 
switched  off  all  the  lights  save  the  one  above  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — III 

'Exile   of    immortality,    strongly   wise, 
Strain  through  the  dark  with  undesirous  eyes. 
To  what  may  be  beyond  it.     Sets  your  star, 
O  heart,   for  ever?     Yet  behind  the  night, 
Waits  for  the  great  unborn,  somewhere  afar, 
Some  white  tremendous  daybreak." 

RupEET  Brooke. 


THAT  night  Lizzie  had  a  dream  and,  -waking  in  the 
early  hours  of  the  grey  dim  morning,  saw  before  her 
every  detail  of  it.  She  had  dreamt  that  she  was  lost  in  the 
house.  !N"o  human  being  was  there.  Every  room  was  closed 
and  she  knew  that  every  room  was  empty. 

It  was  full  day,  but  only  a  dull  yellow  light  lit  the  pas- 
sages.—  She  could  not  find  her  way  to  the  central  staircase. 
A  passage  would  be  familiar  to  her  and  then  suddenly  would 
be  dark  and  vague  and  menacing.  She  opened  doors  and 
found  wide  dusty  empty  rooms  with  windows  thick  in  cob- 
webs and  beyond  them  a  garden  green,  tangled,  deserted. 

She  knew  that  if  she  did  not  escape  soon  some  disaster 
would  overtake  her,  some  disaster  in  which  both  Koddy  and 
Eachel  would  be  involved.  She  knew  also  that,  in  some  way, 
Rachel's  safety  absolutely  depended  upon  her  —  She  felt, 
within  herself,  a  struggle  as  to  whether  she  should  save 
Rachel.  She  did  not  wish  to  save  Rachel.  .  .  .  But 
some  impulse  drove  her.  .  .  . 

She  ran  down  the  passage,  stumbling  in  the  strange  in- 
distinct yellow  light  —  She  knew  that,  could  she  only  reach 
the  garden,  Rachel  would  be  saved. 

She  reached  a  window,  looked  down,  and  saw  below  her, 
like  a  green  pond,  the  lawn  overgrown  now  with  weeds  and 
bristling  with  strange  twisted  plants. 

308 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — III  309 

She  flung  open  the  window  and  tried  to  jump,  but  a  cold 
blast  of  some  storm  met  her  and  drove  her  back.  The 
storm  screamed  about  her,  the  dust  rose  in  the  room,  the 
plants  in  the  garden  waved  their  heads  .  .  .  the  wind 
rushed  through  the  house  and  she  heard  doors  banging  and 
windows  creaking. 

She  knew  suddenly  that  she  was  too  late  —  Rachel  was 
dead. 

She  stood  there  thinking,  "  I  thought  that  I  hated  her  — 
I  know  now  that  I  loved  her  all  the  time." 

The  storm  died  down  —  died  away.  A  voice  quite  close 
to  her  said,  "  You  made  a  mistake,  Miss  Rand.  People 
have  souls,  you  know  —  having  a  soul  of  your  own  is  more 
important  than  criticizing  other  people's.  .  .  .  People  have 
souls,  you  know." 

She  woke  and  heard  a  clock  strike  seven.  As  she  lay 
there  a  sense  of  uneasiness  was  with  her  so  strongly  that  she 
repeated  to  herself,  half  sleeping,  half  waking,  "  I  wish  to- 
day were  over,  quite  over,  quite  over.  I  want  to-day  to  be 
over." 

She  was  completely  wakened  by  a  sound.  She  lay  there 
for  a  little  time  wondering  what  it  was.  Then  she  realized 
that  something  was  scratching  on  the  door. 

She  got  out  of  bed,  opened  the  door  and  found  the  dog, 
Jacob,  sitting  in  the  long  dark  passage,  looking  through  his 
tangled  hair  into  space  as  though  the  very  last  thing  that  he 
had  been  doing  had  been  trying  to  attract  her  attention. 
Jacob  was  nearer  to  a  human  being  than  any  animal  that 
she  had  ever  known.  He  had  attached  himself  to  Miss  Rand 
and  she  had  decided,  after  watching  him,  that  he  knew  more 
about  the  situation  in  the  house  than  anyone  else.  To  catch 
him,  as  he  watehed,  with  his  grave  brown  eyes,  Roddy  or 
Rachel  as  they  spoke  or  moved  was  to  have  no  kind  of  doubt 
as  to  his  wisdom,  his  deep  philosophy,  his  penetration  into 
motives. 

He  liked  Miss  Rand,  but  she  knew  well  that  his  feeling  for 


310  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

her  had  nothing  of  the  passionate  urgency  with  which  he 
regarded  Roddy  or  RacheL  All  tragedy  —  the  depths  and 
the  heights  of  it  —  she  had  seen  in  that  dog's  eyes,  fixed 
with  the  deepest  devotion  upon  Roddy. — "  He  knows,"  she 
had  often  thought  during  the  last  week,  "  exactly  what's  the 
matter  with  all  of  us." 

He  always  slept,  she  knew,  in  a  basket  in  Rachel's  room, 
and  she  wondered  why  he  had  been  ejected.  He  sat  now  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  and  seemed  deeply  unhappy.  He 
sat  square  with  his  legs  spread  out,  his  hair  hanging  in  mel- 
ancholy locks  over  his  eyes,  his  small  beard  giving  a  last 
wistful  touch  to  his  expression.  He  did  not  look  at  Lizzie 
or  show  any  interest  in  her,  he  only  stared  before  him  at  the 
pattern  on  the  wall. 

Lizzie  did  not  attempt  to  pat  him  —  she  went  back  to  bed, 
and,  lying  there,  saw  the  light  gather  about  the  room. 

Once  Jacob  sighed.  Otherwise  he  made  no  movement 
until  the  maid  came  in  with  Lizzie's  tea  —  Then  he  crawled 
under  the  bed. 

n 

When  she  came  down  to  breakfast  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  endure  another  day  of  this  place.  She  wished  now  for 
no  revenge  upon  Rachel,  she  had  no  longer  any  curiosity  as 
to  the  particular  feelings  of  any  one  of  these  people  for  any 
other  .  .  .  she  felt  detached  from  them  all,  and  utterly, 
absolutely  weary. 

She  was  weighed  down  with  a  sense  of  disaster  and  she 
felt  that  she  must,  instantly,  escape  from  it  all,  fling  herself 
again  into  her  London  work,  deal  with  the  tiresome  common- 
places of  her  mother  and  sister  —  she  must  escape. 

Roddy  was  sitting  alone  at  breakfast  and  she  saw  at  once 
that  he  was  uneasy.  He  seemed  to  avoid  her  eyes  and  he 
coloured  as  she  came  towards  him. 

"  Momin',  Miss  Rand,"  he  said,  "  Rachel's  not  comin* 
down.     Bit  of  headache  —  rotten  night." 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — III  311 

"  I  didn't  have  a  very  good  night  either.  That  storm 
made  me  sleep  hadlj." 

"  Yes,  wasn't  it  a  corker  ?     It's  all  right  to-day  though." 

She  looked  through  the  wide  high  windows  and  saw  out 
over  a  country  painted  as  in  a  delicate  water-colour  —  The 
softest  green  and  dark  brown  lay  beneath  a  pale  blue  sky, 
very  still,  very  gentle.  Tiny  white  puffs  of  cloud  were 
blown,  like  soap  bubbles,  across  the  sun,  so  that  bright  gleams 
floated  and  passed  and  flashed  again. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  — "  N^othing  terrifying  in  such  a 
day  as  this." 

"Yes,  it's  beautiful  —  beautiful!  I'm  off  for  the  day," 
Eoddy  said,  "  ridin' ^" 

She  helped  herself  to  some  breakfast  and  sat  down. 

Roddy  said,  "  Well,  no  one  would  ever  believe  you'd  had  a 
bad  night,  Miss  Rand." — "  You're  fresh  as  a  pin." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  But,  all  the  same,  I 
did  sleep  badly." 

"  I'm  not  feeling  princely  myself,"  he  confessed,  "  that's 
why  I'm  goin'  off  for  a  ride,  nothin'  like  a  ride  to  take  you 
out  of  yourself.  Don't  you  ever  feel.  Miss  Rand,  that  you 
want  to  get  right  away  from  yourself  and  be  someone  else  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him.  Roddy  was  in  real  trouble.  His 
very  physical  strength  showed  the  more  clearly  that  he  was 
unhappy.  His  fingers  moved  restlessly,  his  eyes  were  never 
still.  She  looked  at  her  letters.  There  was  one  from  Lady 
Adela. 

"  Oh !  I'm  sorry  —  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  go  back 
almost  immediately  —  The  Duchess  is  much  less  well  — 
They're  worried  about  her." 

"  The  Duchess !  "  Roddy  started  up  and  then  sat  down 
again.  "  I'm  sorry  —  I  was  thinking  about  her  only  yes- 
terday.    What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Lady  Adela  doesn't  say,  but  she  asks  about  you  —  the 
Duchess,  I  mean.  Got  it  into  her  head.  Lady  Adela  says, 
that  you're  not  well  or  something." 


312  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

"  I'll  write  to  her."  Roddy  spoke  slowly  as  though  to 
himself  — "  I've  not  treated  her  very  well  lately  and  she's 
always  been  such  a  brick  to  me."  He  left  his  breakfast, 
walked  backwards  and  forwards  once  or  twice  — "  Always 
heen  such  a  brick  to  me,  the  old  lady  has,"  he  repeated. 

Lady  Adela  really  did  want  Lizzie  to  return.  This  hor- 
rid war  was  getting  on  her  nerves,  the  house  was  all  in  dis- 
order and  nobody  seemed  either  well  or  happy. 

"  Somebody  really  does  want  me,"  thought  Lizzie  with  a 
certain  grim  satisfaction. 

But  she  was  terribly  restless  that  morning.  She  could 
settle  down  to  nothing  and  ended  by  walking  up  and  down 
the  garden  paths,  watching  the  pale  winter  light  cross  the 
Downs  in  sweeping  shadow,  seeing  the  bare  branches,  all 
black  and  sharp  against  the  blue  distance. 

How  she  loved  life  and  how,  at  every  turn,  life  was  thrust 
from  her!  For  that  other  woman,  there  inside  the  house, 
two  men  were  ready,  eager  to  die  —  for  herself,  in  all  the 
world,  no  one  cared. 

There  came  up  to  her  again,  borne  as  it  were  on  the  sharp 
winter  air,  a  determination  to  drive  down  Rachel's  defences. 
The  very  sense  that  now,  after  Lady  Adela's  letter,  she  must 
shortly  return  to  London,  hardened  her  resolution. 

Before  breakfast  she  had  felt  that  she  did  not  care,  now, 
quite  suddenly  she  was  determined  that  she  would  confront 
Rachel  and  drag  the  truth  from  her.  How  much  did  Rachel 
care?  Was  Rachel  already  involved  in  a  liaison  with  Bre- 
ton? 

And,  at  that  thought,  a  pain  so  fierce  clutched  her  heart 
that  for  a  moment  she  could  not  see  and  the  garden  and  the 
sky  mingled  like  coloured  smoke  before  her  eyes. 

Suddenly,  coming  to  the  end  of  the  garden  by  the  stone 
gate  she  saw  that  a  strange  thing  had  happened  —  one  of 
the  gryphons,  perched  there  for  many  centuries,  had  tum- 
bled to  the  ground  and  lay  in  the  path,  beyond  the  garden, 
broken  into  two  pieces. 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — III  313 

The  storm  of  last  night  must  have  driven  it  down.  But 
what  had  broken  it  ? 

She  was  sorry.  She  knew  how  deeply  attached  Roddy 
was  to  those  gryphons;  she  remembered  his  pride  when  he 
had  pointed  them  out  to  her. 

The  other  gryphon  looked  very  lonely. 

"  He  will  be  distressed."  The  dead  leaves  on  the  path 
were  trembling  over  the  broken  pieces  of  stone  and  whis- 
tling, in  little  excited  groups,  above  it  — "  Just  as  though 
they  are  glad,"  she  thought. 

She  and  Rachel  had  a  very  amiable  conversation  at 
luncheon.     Rachel  confessed  to  a  bad  night. 

Lizzie  told  her  about  Jacob. 

"  How  tiresome  of  him  to  come  and  bother  you  —  yes,  I 
couldn't  sleep  and  he  was  very  restless  too,  so  I  put  him  into 
the  passage.  It  was  after  six  —  I  meant  him  to  go  down  to 
the  servants'  hall.     I'm  so  sorry,  Miss  Rand." 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  worry  me  at  all.  I  was  awake."  That 
appeal  was  in  Rachel's  eyes  to-day  more  than  ever.  Lizzie 
saw  it  and  steeled  her  heart.  "  I  must  know,"  she  thought. 
"  I  must  know." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "  that  I'll  have  to  go  back  to  Lon- 
don to-morrow.  I  heard  from  Lady  Adela  this  morning  — 
The  Duchess  is  not  so  well." 

"  Oh !  "  Rachel  caught  her  breath  — "  oh,  Miss  Rand,  no, 
no,  oh!  I  hope  not!  You  must  stay!  I !"  her  col- 
our came  and  went.  "  There's  the  dance.  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do  without  you."  And  she  went  on  more  des- 
perately, catching  Lizzie's  eyes  and  evading  them.  "  We 
are  just  beginning  to  be  so  happy  here.  My  husband  likes 
you  so  much.     I  do  hope " 

She  stopped  and  the  colour  left  her  again ;  her  hands  were 
trembling  on  the  white  tablecloth. 

The  strangest  impulse  flooded  Lizzie's  breast,  an  impulse 
to  go  to  her  and  put  her  arms  about  her  and  kiss  her  and  let 
her,  there  and  then,  unburden  her  heart  — 


314  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

Lizzie  drove  the  impulse  down,  buried  it.  Her  eyes  were 
cold  and  her  voice  hard  as  she  answered  — 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  think  I  must  go.  I  can't  leave  Lady 
Adela  if  things  are  really  difficult.  I'll  come  this  afternoon, 
shall  I  ?  and  we  might  go  over  the  dance " 

Rachel  had  been  thinking;  she  looked  up  sharply  and 
stared  at  Lizzie,  staring  as  though  she  had  been  some  stranger 
whom  she  saw  for  the  first  time. 

"  Yes  —  Come  to  the  Chinese  room  at  four,  will  you  ? 
We'll  have  tea  up  there." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lizzie,  "  at  four." 

They  were  both  of  them  aware  that  something,  now  quite 
irrevocable,  had  been  settled  by  these  words. 

There  was  a  little  old  library  up  in  one  of  the  towers,  and 
there  Lizzie  went.  She  had  a  desperate  need  of  some  place 
where,  during  the  next  hour,  she  might  think  and  decide 
upon  some  plan.  The  room  had  little  diamond-paned  win- 
dows that  looked  down,  on  one  side,  over  the  courtyard,  and 
on  the  other  over  the  garden  and  the  Downs.  The  shelves 
went  from  ceiling  to  floor  and  were  filled  with  books  that 
dimly  shone  with  their  old  gold  and  were  dusky  in  their  rich, 
faded  bindings. 

It  was  very  seldom  that  anyone  came  here;  Lizzie  was 
quite  alone  as,  perched  up  in  one  of  the  deep-seated  windows, 
she  looked  down  at  the  garden,  saw  the  stone  gate  with  the 
solitary  gryphon,  watched  the  swiftly  fading  afternoon  light 
fill  the  green  lawn  as  a  pot  is  filled  with  water. 

Even  now,  early  though  it  was,  the  little  room  was  grow* 
ing  dark. 

She  strove  now,  resolutely,  to  discipline  her  mind.  Al- 
though the  very  thought  of  Eraneis  Breton  now  shamed  her, 
it  was  for  him  that  she  must  care.  "  Poor  dear,"  he  was 
even  now,  in  her  heart.  "  Foolish,  indiscreet  —  must 
plunge  from  one  mess  into  another,  needs  someone  —  Oh,  so 
dreadfully  —  to  help  him  out." 

Her  hostility  to  Rachel  did  not  prevent  her  from  feeling 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — III  315 

that  here  was  someone  very  young,  terribly  inexperienced, 
most  unhappily  impulsive  —  the  very  last  in  the  world  to 
prevent  Breton  from  having  another  catastrophe  as  bad  as 
the  early  ones. 

She  must  know  absolutely  what  it  was  that  he  and  Eachel 
were  doing,  and  only  Eachel  could  tell  her  that  —  And  here 
her  feeling  about  Rachel  was  compounded  of  the  strangest 
mixture  of  anger  and  suspicion,  of  tenderness  and  compas 
sion,  of  sympathy  and  hard  callous  indifference. 

"  Oh !  "  Lizzie  thought,  "  why  has  all  this  come  to  me  ? 
Why  wasn't  I  allowed  just  to  go  on  with  my  life  as  it  was  — 
My  life  that  was  so  safe  and  sure  and  dull  ?  " — 

She  was  conscious,  as  she  sat  there,  that  she  was  listening 
for  something.  She  felt,  in  an  odd  way,  that  the  day  had 
been  a  direct  continuance  of  the  dream  that  she  had  had  in 
the  night ;  all  the  morning  she  had  been  aware  that  her  ears, 
in  spite  of  herself,  had  been  waiting  for  some  sound,  a  mes- 
sage, or  an  arrival. 

She  sat  now  in  the  swiftly  darkening  room,  as  though  she 
had  been  told  that  someone  was  coming  at  such  and  such  an 
hour  and  she  had  heard  the  clock  strike  and  was  listening 
for  the  grating  of  the  wheels  on  the  cobbles  of  the  courtyard. 

The  calm  winter's  day  passed  now  into  a  purple  twilight 

—  lights  were  coming  in  the  windows  — 

She  thought  she  heard  a  step  in  the  passage  and  was 
startled  as  though  someone  had  been  suddenly,  unexpectedly 
within  the  room. 

She  opened  the  window  and  listened  — "  Someone  —  sev- 
eral people  —  will  come  down  that  garden  path  in  a  minute 

—  I  know  they  will." 

But  the  air  was  very  cold  and  she  closed  the  window; 
^en  as  she  did  so  a  clock  struck  four. 
She  got  up  and  went  to  RacheL     . 


316  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

in 

The  Chinese  room  was  so  called  because  its  walls  were 
covered  with  a  stiff  golden  Chinese  paper.  It  had  wide 
windows  looking  on  to  the  garden;  Rachel  used  it  a  great 
deal. 

Lizzie  fixed  upon  her  mind,  very  deliberately,  all  the 
details  of  her  surroundings.  Rachel  was  dressed  in  black 
with  red  round  her  throat  and  her  waist,  and  this  brilliant 
colour  made  her  face  seem  white  and  there  were  deep,  heavy 
black  marks  under  her  eyes. 

She  looked  up  when  Lizzie  came  in,  seemed,  with  a  vio- 
lent effort,  to  compel  control. 

They  sat  there  for  some  time  and  discussed  the  dance; 
the  dusk  filled  the  room,  then  tea  was  brought.  There  was 
a  light  in  their  comer;  slowly  the  rest  of  the  room  grew 
dark. 

They  finished  tea,  it  was  taken  away,  and  Lizzie,  sitting 
quite  close  to  Rachel,  on  a  little  sofa  that  had  a  window  just 
behind  it,  was  aware  that  again,  in  spite  of  herself,  her  ears 
were  straining  for  some  sound.  The  house  and  all  the 
world  were  profoundly  still. 

When  the  servant  had  at  last  left  them  alone,  Rachel  said 
• — "  Miss  Rand,  you  mustn't  go  away  to-morrow  —  Aunt 
Adela  can  manage  for  another  week.  After  all,  she  did 
promise  that  you  should  stay  for  me  over  the  ball." 

"  Why  did  you  ask  me  here,  Lady  Rachel  ?  "  Lizzie  said. 
Her  speech  was  a  direct  challenge  and,  instantly,  when  she 
had  spoken  she  knew  that  they  had  entered  upon  those  per- 
sonal relations  that  they  had,  during  all  these  weeks,  feared. 

"  I  asked  you  because  I  wanted  you  for  a  friend  —  I've 
no  friend  —  no  woman  friend  —  whom  I  can  trust.  I  knew 
that  I  could  trust  you  —  I  hoped  that  you  could  help 
me " 

"  I've  been  here  for  some  time  now  and  you  have  told  me 
nothing." 


LIZZIE'S  JOUEN'EY  —  III  317 

*'  Xo  —  because  you  have  held  me  off,  have  shown  me  so 
plainly  that  you  disliked  and  distrusted  me.  You  didn't 
always  dislike  me  —  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  That's  only  my  way.  As  I  told  you  this  morning,  Lady 
Seddon,  I'm  not  an  emotional  person.  But  I  feel  more 
than  I  show.  I  would  like  to  help  you,  if  you  will  let 
me." 

Eachel  leaned  forward  and  caught  first  Lizzie's  arm,  then, 
her  hand.  Then  she  spoke,  her  voice  quivering  as  though 
she  were  forcing  upon  herself  the  most  intense  control. 

"  Oh !  you're  so  strange,  so  odd  I  don't  know  what  you 
feel,  whether  you  care,  hut  these  last  months  have  been  so 
hard  for  me  that  even  though  you  hate  me,  despise  me,  it 
doesn't  matter  —  nothing  matters  if  only  I  can  get  away 
from  myself,  you're  so  different  —  so  dry,  so  hard,  but  you 

are,  you  are !  —  just  as  hard "   she  stopped  —  Lizzie 

drew  her  hand  away, 

"  Please  —  don't  tell  me  things  if  you  feel  about  me  like 
that.  It  hasn't  been  my  fault,  has  it,  that  we  don't  get  on  ? 
I  didn't  ask  to  come  here,  to  know  you  —  let  me  go  —  let 
me  go  back.  Don't  bother  about  me  —  leave  me  alone,"  she 
at  last  brought  out. 

But  Eachel  said  more  urgently  — "  iRo,  don't  go  now. 
Even  though  you  don't  care,  even  though  you  hate  me,  help 
me.  I've  no  one  else.  If  only  you  knew  the  things  I've 
suffered  these  past  weeks,  how  I've  hated  myself  for  my  in- 
decision, for  my  weakness  and  shame.  I  don't  know  why  I 
feel  as  though  you  were  the  only  person  to  whom  I  could 
talk.  I'm  being  driven,  I  suppose,  by  this  long  silence  — 
and  then  you're  so  absolutely  to  be  trusted  -^  even  though 
you  dislike  me  —  you're  straight  all  through  —  I've  always 
known  that." 

At  Lizzie's  heart  again  now  that  strange  confusion  of 
sensation,  and  with  it  a  sure  conviction  that  fate  had  this 
scene  between  them  in  hand,  and  that  events  now,  whatever 
the  hours  might  bring  forth,  were  beyond  her  control. 


318  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

"  Yes,  you  may  trust  me,"  she  said  drily  — "  I'm  useful, 
at  any  rate  for  that." 

Lizzie  watched  her  as,  in  the  little  pause  that  followed, 
Eachel  struggled  for  concentration  and  for  the  point  of  view 
that  would  make  the  strongest  appeal.  Thai,  Lizzie  grimly 
knew,  was  the  thing  for  which  the  girl  was  struggling  and  it 
yielded  her  the  pleasanter  irony  because  she  was,  herself,  so 
surely  aware  of  that  one  fact  that  all  Rachel's  confessions 
contained  — 

Eor  herself  she  had  only  confidently  to  sit  and  wait.  .  .  . 
Then  Rachel  plunged  — 

"  I'm  unhappy,"  she  said,  "  in  my  married  life,  miser- 
ably unhappy,  and  entirely,  utterly  by  my  own  fault.  I've 
tried,  or  fancied  that  I've  tried.  I've  done  what  I've 
thought  was  my  best  —  Things  have  happened  now,  at  last, 
that  have  made  it  impossible  —  I  can't  go  on  any  longer." 

She  spoke  as  though  she  were,  very  urgently,  endeavour- 
ing to  deliver  a  fair  honest  statement.  There  was  in  her 
voice  a  note  that  showed  that  life  had  truly,  of  late,  been  very 
hard  for  her  — 

"  I  married,  in  the  beginning,  for  a  wrong  reason.  I  knew 
then  that  I  didn't  love  my  husband.  I  married  because  I 
wanted  to  escape.  I  had  always  hated  my  grandmother  and 
she  had  always  hated  me  —  you  knew  that.  Miss  Hand; 
everyone  who  had  anything  to  do  with  us  knew  it.  She  had 
done  more  than  hate  me,  she  had  made  me  frightened  — 
frightened  of  life  and  people.  Someone  came  along  who 
was  kind  and  easy  and  comfortable,  and  everyone  said  it 
would  be  a  good  thing,  and  so  I,  not  because  I  loved  him,  but 
because  I  wanted  to  escape  from  my  grandmother,  married 
him.  Because  I  had  to  silence  everything  that  was  honest 
in  me  I'm  paying  now." 

"  It  was  all  quite  natural,"  Lizzie  said.  "  Most  women 
would  have  done  the  same." 

"  It  was  horrible  from  the  beginning ;  I  found  that  I  had 
not  escaped  from  my  grandmother  at  all.     She  had  arranged 


LIZZIE'S  JOTJENEY  — III  319 

the  marriage  and  now  was  always,  and  in  some  curious  way, 
influencing  it. 

"  I  soon  saw  what  I  had  done  —  that  I  had  been  false  to 
myself  and  therefore  false  to  everything  else.  My  hus- 
band was  in  love  with  me  —  He  was  very  patient  and  good 
to  me,  but  I  found  that  everything  that  I  did  or  thought  or 
said  in  connection  with  my  husband  was  false.  What  made 
it  so  hard  was  that  I  was,  and  I  am,  very  fond  of  him.  My 
training  —  the  training  of  all  our  family  had  always  been  — 
to  learn  how  to  be  sham,  so  that  one's  real  self  never  appeared 
all  one's  life.  It  ought  to  have  been  easy  enough  —  but  I've 
never  been  like  one  of  my  family  —  I'd  always  been  dif- 
ferent. 

"  I  had  determined  that  this  year  I  would  do  my  duty  to 
Koddy  —  But  it's  harder  than  any  determination  can  gov- 
ern. It's  bad  for  Eoddy,  it's  deadly  for  me  ...  at  last 
things  have  happened  that  have  made  it  impossible  for  me  — 
I've  made  up  my  mind  this  morning.  I  must  leave  Roddy, 
let  him  divorce  me,  give  him  a  better  chance  with  someone 
else." 

She  spoke  with  the  desperate  immediate  determination  of 
youth,  staring  in  front  of  her,  her  hands  clenched.  Like 
flame  at  Lizzie's  heart  leapt  this  knowledge. 

"  She  and  Breton  are  going  —  only  you  can  stop  them  — 
she  and  Breton." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  Lizzie,  "  a  little  of  your  hus- 
band?" 

"  I'm  thinking  of  him  all  the  time  —  It's  for  his  sake  — 
that  he  should  have  a  better  chance  with  someone  who 
cared " 

"  No,  that  isn't  true,"  said  Lizzie  — "  It's  because  you 
love  someone  else " 

Rachel,  with  her  head  down,  whispered,  "Yes  —  it's 
because  .  .  .  someone  else." 

"  Francis  Breton." 

"  Yes,  Francis  Breton." 


320  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

That  whisper  of  his  name  had  in  it  confidence,  worship, 
defiance  ...  all  these  things  were  torture  to  Lizzie  sitting 
there,  very  composed,  very  stern,  very  quiet.  She  should 
have  been  able  to  say  that  name  with  just  that  precious  in- 
timacy, and  she  saw,  in  Rachel's  eyes,  beyond  her  trouble 
the  glad  pride  that  the  pronouncing  of  the  name  had  given 
her. 

"  You  know  ?  "  Eachel  asked  at  length. 

"  Yes " 

"  You've  known  a  long  time." 

"  Yes  —  a  long  time." 

"  Oh !  If  you'd  only  spoken  to  me !  —  All  this  time  I've 
been  wanting  you  to  —  You  must  have  known." 

"  Yes  —  I  knew."  Then  Lizzie  brought  out  slowly,  let- 
ting her  grave  eyes  wander  over  Rachel's  face  — 

"  You  yourself  insisted  on  telling  me.  You  have  brought 
it  upon  yourself  if  I  say  what  I  mus*"-  ../>  ." 

Eachel  caught  the  hostility. 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  said  sharply. 

"  I'm  older  than  you  —  older  in  every  way.  You  know 
so  little  yet,  the  harm  that  you  can  do.  .  .  .  You  must  leave 
Francis  Breton  alone,  Lady  Seddon." 

Rachel  laughed  — "  Of  course  I  knew  that  you  —  that  it 
was  the  kind  of  way  that  you  must  look  at  it.  But  don't 
you  see,  we've  got  past  all  that  first  stage  —  It  isn't,  in  the 
very  least,  any  good  looking  at  it  from  any  general  point  of 
view.  It's  simply  the  individual  happiness  of  the  three  of 
us,  my  husband,  Francis  Breton,  myself  —  It's  better  for  all 
of  us  that  I  should  go." 

"  No  .  .  .  not  better  for  Francis  Breton." 

Rachel  moved  impatiently  — "  He  —  he  and  I  —  can 
judge  that.  Miss  Rand " 

"  'No  —  You  can't  —  you're  too  young.  You  don't  know 
—  I  have  a  right  to  speak  here,  I  know  him  —  I  have  known 
him  all  this  time " 

Lizzie  broke  off.     Rachel,  suddenly  looking  up,  gazed  at 


LIZZIE'S  JOUBNEY  — III  321 

lier  —  Lizzie,  fiercely,  also  proudly  as  though  she  were  guard- 
ing something  very  precious  that  they  were  trying  to  take 
from  her,  returned  her  gaze. 

"All  this  time,"  Rachel  said  slowly.  "You've  known 
him  —  of  course  ...  at  Saxton  Square.  .  .  ." 

Then,  as  though  the  revelation  had  suddenly  broken  upon 
her,  "  Why  you  —  you !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lizzie,  now  fiercely  indeed,  hurling  back  at 
the  girl  the  nmvete  of  her  surprise.  "  Yes  —  it's  odd,  isn't 
it?  I'm  not  the  kind  of  woman,  am  I,  ever  to  care  for  a 
man,  or  to  have  a  man  care  for  me  ?  —  To  have  any  feeling  or 
desire  or  affection.  But  it  is  not  so  strange  as  it  may  seem 
—  I  love  him  every  bit  as  well  as  you  do  —  I've  cared  more 
patiently  perhaps,  more  unselfishly  even.  But  there  it  is 
...  it  gives  me  the  right." 

Nothing  more  surprising  than  that  on  this  special  cir- 
cumstance Eachel  had  never  reckoned.  Feeling  it  now,  blaz- 
ing there  before  her,  the  way  that  she  was  to  deal  with  it  was 
beyond  her  experience.  In  an  instant  Lizzie  Rand  was,  to 
her,  a  new  creature.  Always  she  had  seen  Lizzie  patiently, 
with  method,  with  discipline,  putting  things  in  order  —  that 
was  her  world  and  dominion.  Lizzie  had  appeared,  to  Ra- 
chel, to  stand  for  all  the  things  that  she  herself  was 
not.  Rachel  had  often  envied  that  absence  of  emotion,  that 
security  from  impulse  and  passion,  and  it  was  upon  that 
very  security  that  Rachel  had  wished  to  depend.  It  was 
that  that  had  driven  her  to  seek  Lizzie's  friendship.  She 
herself  so  unsure,  so  caught  and  destroyed  by  powers  too 
potent  for  her  resistance,  had  looked  with  wonder  and  de- 
sire upon  Lizzie's  safety  — 

N^ow  Lizzie  Rand  was  no  longer  Lizzie  Rand.  She  was  of 
Rachel's  number ;  she  might,  as  easily  as  Rachel,  be  swept, 
whirled  away, —  after  death  and  destruction. 

But  there  was  more  than  that.  There  was  the  realization, 
that  Lizzie  must  hate  her,  that  Lizzie  was  the  last  person  in 
the  world  to  whom  she  should  have  given  her  confidence, 


322  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

that  Lizzie  would  fight  now  to  the  last  breath  in  her  body  to 
keep  Francis  Breton  from  her. 

During  a  long  silence  thej  sat  facing  one  another  —  the 
little  room  was  now  nearly  dark  and  it  was  only  by  the  faint 
pale  shadow  from  the  sky  beyond  the  window  that  they  could 
catch,  each  from  each,  their  consciousness  of  their  new  re- 
lationship. 

It  was  during  that  silence  that  Lizzie  was  again  aware 
that  her  ears  were  straining  to  catch  some  sound.  .  .  . 

"  I  didn't  know,"  Rachel  said  at  last  very  softly ;  "  it 
must  seem  brutal  to  you  now  that  I  should  have  told  you  all 
this.     I  wouldn't  of  course  have  spoken." 

"  Ah !  you  needn't  mind,"  Lizzie  said  grimly.  "  He's 
never  seen  anything  of  it.  You  must  never  give  him  any 
reason  to  suspect  —  I  trust  you  for  that.  !N^o  one  in  this 
world  knows  but  you,  and  you  should  never  have  known  if 
it  had  not  been  that  I  hod  to  prove  my  right  to  interfere. 
Perhaps  even  now,  you  don't  see  that  I  have  a  right,  but 
whether  I  have  one  or  no,  you've  got  to  reckon  with  me 
now " 

"  And  you've  got  to  reckon,"  Rachel  answered,  with  some 
of  Lizzie's  own  fierceness,  "  with  a  power  that's  beyond  your 
power  or  mine  or  anyone's.  Don't  you  imagine  that  we,  all 
of  us,  haven't  tried  hard  enough.  Why!  all  these  last  two 
years  we've  done  nothing  but  try.  Now  it's  simply  stronger 
than  we  are.  If  Roddy,"  she  went  on,  speaking  now  more 
slowly,  "  hadn't  forced  it.  .  .  .  If  he'd  not  been  impatient 
—  but  now  —  after  what's  just  happened,  it's  right  —  it 
isn't  fair  to  him,  to  myself,  to  any  of  us,  that  things  should 
go  on  as  they  are " 

"  I'm  thinking,"  Lizzie  answered  quietly,  "  simply  of 
Francis  Breton." 

"  Well  I  isn't  it  fairer  too  for  him  ?  He's  been  living,  as 
we  have,  all  this  time,  a  life  that's  denying  all  his  own  real 
self.     Anything's  better  than  being  false  to  that  —  life  may 


LIZZIE'S  J0UB:N^EY  — III  32S 

be  hard  for  us  if  "we  go  away  together,  but  at  any  rate  it  will 
be  honest " 

"  Ah !  that  just  shows  how  young  you  are !  Don't  I  kno\f 
that  pursuit  of  truth  and  honesty  as  well  as  you?  Don't 
I  know  that  when  life's  beginning  for  us,  the  one  thing  that 
seems  to  matter  is  exposing  ourselves,  showing  ourselves  to 
the  world  just  as  we  are!  At  first  it  seems  such  an  easy 
thing  —  Just  round  that  comer  the  moment's  coming  when 
the  real  person  in  us  is  going  to  stand  up  and  proclaim  itself 
just  as  it  is,  fine  and  splendid?  but  always  something  just 
comes  in  the  way  and  stops  it  —  the  years  go  on  and  we're 
further  off  from  truth  than  ever. 

"  You  think  that  if  you  go  off  with  Francis  Breton  now, 
you'll,  both  of  you,  be  leading,  suddenly,  honest  brave  lives 
before  the  world.  I  tell  you  it  isn't  so.  Things  will  be  just 
as  crooked,  just  as  shadowed  —  issues  just  as  confused  —  it 
will  be  worse  than  it  was." 

"  But  you  don't  know " 

"  I  know  Francis  Breton.  Don't  you  know  too  the  kind  of 
man  that  he  is  ?  Don't  you  know  that  he's  as  weak  as  a  man 
can  be,  weaker  than  any  woman  ever  could  be  ?  He's  the 
kind  of  man  who  must  have  society  to  bolster  him  up.  If 
the  men  of  his  world  are  supporting  him  then  he's  as  good  aa 
gold,  as  fine  as  you  like.  Let  them  leave  him  and  down  he 
goes.  All  his  life  the  world's  been  down  on  him  and  that's 
why  he's  been  down.  Lately  he's  been  quiet  —  he's  been 
winning  his  place  back.  Soon,  if  he's  patient,  they'll  all 
come  round  him  again.  But  let  him  go  off  with  you  and 
he's  done,  finished  —  absolutely,  utterly.  ^  Ah ! '  everyone 
will  say,  '  that's  what  we  expected.  That's  what  we  always 
knew  would  happen.'  Don't  you  know  what  kind  of  effect 
that  will  have  upon  him  ?  Don't  you  know  ?  .  .  .  Of  course 
you  do.  It  will  break  him  up.  His  old  life  abroad,  creeping 
from  place  to  place,  will  begin  again,  only  now  he'll  have  the 
additional  knowledge  that  he's  done  for  you  as  well  as  for 


324  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

himself.  It  will  be  the  end,  utterly  the  end  of  him.  And  Jg 
■who  love  him,  will  not  let  it  be." 

Lizzie's  speech  had  roused  in  Rachel  one  of  those  old 
storms  of  anger.  She  was  exerting  now  her  utmost  self- 
control,  but  her  heart  seemed  bound  tight  with  some  cord 
so  slender  that  one  movement,  one  impulse,  would  snap  it  — 
Then  .  .  .  She  saw  in  Lizzie  now,  only  moved  by  a  sense  of 
jealous  injury  — "  She  sits  there,  knowing  that  I've  taken 
him  from  her.  That's  it.  .  .  .  That's  what  she's  feeling  — 
she's  lost  hinL     She  can't  forgive  me  for  that." 

But  when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  quiet  and  controlled. 

"  That  isn't  so,"  Rachel  said ;  "  it  won't,  I  think,  be  like 
that.  There's  so  much  more  between  us  than  you  can  under- 
stand. There's  all  our  early  life  —  not  that  we  were  to- 
gether, but  we  seem  to  have  it  all  in  common,  to  have  known 
it  all  together.  We're  unlike  our  family  —  all  the  Beamin- 
Bters  —  we're  together  in  that  —  we  are  together  in  every- 
thing." 

But  Lizzie's  voice  went  on,  so  coldly,  with  such  assurance 
that,  with  every  word,  the  flame  of  Rachel's  anger  climbed 
a  little  higher,  grew  stronger  and  steadier. 

"  There's  another  thing  too.  I  watched  you,  more  than 
you  know.  "No,  no  man  —  no  man  in  the  world  —  will  ever 
keep  you  altogether  —  there's  something  —  I  can't  tell  you 
what  it  is  —  there's  something  in  you  that  demands  more 
than  just  a  personal  relationship  like  that  —  Perhaps  it's 
maternity  —  it  is,  with  many  women, —  perhaps  it's  a  great 
cause,  a  movement  of  a  country  — 

"  But  I  know,  with  certainty,  that  you  will  never  love 
Breton  as  you  should  love  a  man.  Realization  will  never  be 
the  thing  to  you  that  anticipation  and  retrospection  are.  I 
believe  if  you  were  to  lose  your  husband  now,  you'd  find  that 
you  loved  him  —  All  thoughts  of  Francis  Breton  would 
go " 

At  that,  because  at  the  very  heart  of  her  determination 
burnt  the  knowledge  that  Lizzie's  words  were  true,  Rachel's 


LIZZIE'S  JOURN^EY  — III  325 

control  was  abandoned,  her  anger  leapt:  "You  think  you 
know  —  you  think  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  you  don't  know 
me  at  all !  —  you  can't  know  me  —  we're  strangers,  Miss 
Eand  —  now  —  always.  .  .  . 

"  Nothing,  nothing  can  ever  make  us  friends  again  —  I'll 
never  forgive  you  for  what  you've  said  —  the  poor  creature 
that  you  take  me  for  —  no  doubt  you'd  have  done  better  had 
the  chance  been  yours,  but  you  go  too  far " 

"  That  was  imfair  of  you,"  Lizzie  said  very  low  — "  You 
may  say  to  me  what  you  please  —  That's  of  no  importance  to 
anybody.  But  Francis  Breton's  happiness,  his  success,  that 
is  more  to  me  than  anything  or  anyone. —  You  shall  not 
break  his  life  into  pieces  for  your  own  pleasure.  There  are 
more  important  things  than  your  personal  happiness,  Lady 
Seddon " 

They  were  both  standing,  but  they  could  not  see  one  an- 
other, save,  very  faintly,  their  hands  and  faces  — 

"It's  too  late.  Miss  Eand,"  Eachel  laughed.  "I  shall 
write  to  him  to-morrow.  I  myself  shall  tell  my  husband  — 
there  is  nothing  that  you  can  do " 

They  stood  there,  conscious  that  a  word,  a  movement  on 
either  side  might  produce  an  absurd,  a  tragic  scene.  Lizzie 
had  never  known  such  anger  as  the  passion  that  now  held 
her.  Eachel  was  taunting  her  with  the  thing  that  she  had 
missed;  she  stood  there,  before  the  world,  as  the  woman  for 
whom  no  man  cared  —  she  stood  there  with  the  one  human 
being  who  mattered  to  her  on  the  edge  of  complete  disaster 
—  nothing  that  she  could  do  could  prevent  it  —  and  the 
woman  at  her  side  was  the  cause. 

A  sudden  sweeping  consciousness  of  the  things  that  it 
would  mean  if  Eachel  were  dead  flowed  over  her.  Her  heart 
stopped  —  that  way  —  at  least  —  Francis  Breton  might  be 
saved.  .  .  . 

The  room,  dark  as  pitch  before  her,  was  filled  now  with  a 
red  glow  —  Her  hands,  clenched,  were  ice  in  a  world  that  was 
all  of  an  overpowering  heaL 


326  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

Lizzie  never  afterwards  could  remember  what  then  exactly 
happened. 

She  was  worked  to  a  pitch  of  anger,  she  was  thinking  to 
herself,  "What  would  be  a  way?  .  .  .  anything  to  save 
him.  .  .  ." 

"  She  shouldn't  have  taunted  me  with  that  " —  when, 
suddenly,  exactly  as  though  someone  had  taken  her  brain 
and  emptied  it,  she  had  forgotten  Rachel,  had  forgotten  her 
own  personal  injury,  forgotten  her  anger,  was  only  aware 
that,  with  every  nerve  in  her  body  on  edge,  she  was  waiting 
for  some  sound  — 

Like  an  answer  to  an  invocation,  the  sound,  through  the 
closed  window,  came  — 

IV 

She  must  have  made  some  startled  noise,  because  she  heard 
Rachel  say,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

She  fled  to  the  window  and  opened  it.  She  could  see  noth- 
ing, but  she  could  hear,  as  she  had  known  all  day  that  she 
would  hear,  steps,  stumbling,  falling  heavily,  upon  the  heavy 
gravel  path. 

She  felt  Rachel's  hand  upon  her  sleeve :  "  What  is  it  ?  " 
Rachel  said  again  — "  Lizzie,  what  is  it  ?  " 

Both  women  were  seized  and  held  by  fear.  Their  feelings 
for  one  another  were  lost,  sunk  in  the  cold,  shattering  sense 
of  disaster  that  had  come,  through  the  open  window,  into  the 
room. 

They  could  see  lights  now  and  figures  —  There  were  mur- 
muring voices  — 

"  Oh,  Lizzie,  what  is  it  ? "  Rachel  said  for  the  third  time, 
and  then  after  a  moment  — "  Roddy !  " 

Lizzie  said  — "  Wait  there.  It  may  be  nothing.  I'll  see 
—  Don't  you  come  for  a  moment." 

She  crossed  the  dark  room,  and  opening  the  door  saw 
Peters  hurrying  down  the  passage  towards  her.  His  face  was 
in  complete  disorder  —  the  face  of  someone  who,  throughout 


LIZZIE'S  JOURNEY  — III  327 

his  life,  has  had  only  one  kind  of  face  that  has  served  most 
admirably  for  every  kind  of  occasion  —  suddenly  a  situation 
has  arisen  for  which  that  face  will  not  serve  — 

His  body  was  shaking  — 

"  Oh!  Miss  E^nd,  the  master!  " 

Lizzie  felt  Rachel  follow  her,  brush  past  both  of  them,  down 
the  passage  and  out  of  sight  — 

"  An  accident  —  flung  from  his  horse  and  dragged  along  — 
been  hours  on  the  hill  —  a  shepherd  found  him." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"  No,  miss,  not  dead  —  not  yet,  thank  God !  " 

"The  doctor?" 

"  Dr.  Crane  from  Lewes  —  we  caught  him,  miss,  most 
fortunately,  on  the  way  from  another  patient  —  he's  down- 
stairs now." 

"  Quick,  Peters,  things  will  be  wanted." 

Lizzie  passed  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  Peters  behind  her 
said,  "  They've  taken  Sir  Roderick  into  the  green  drawing- 
room,  miss,  so  as  not  to  have  to  go  upstairs." 

She  came  down  the  stairs  and  then  stood,  waiting  in  the 
hall.  That  was,  for  the  moment,  deserted,  but  the  house 
wore  an  air  of  dismay,  surprised  alarm,  so  that  every  sound 
was  of  momentous  import.  Somewhere,  a  long  way  away, 
someone  —  perhaps  a  frightened  kitchen-maid  —  was  sob- 
bing—  the  hall  door  was  still  open  and  little  gusts  of  cold 
wind  came  in  and  stirred  and  rustled  the  pages  of  some  illus- 
trated papers  on  one  of  the  tables. 

Lizzie  went  to  the  door  and  closed  it  —  what  should  she  do  ? 
To  go  into  the  room  and  ask  whether  she  could  be  of  use? 
Her  quarrel  with  Rachel  had  made  any  movement  now  on  her 
part  diflScult  —  Rachel  might  resent  her  presence  — 

Someone  came  into  the  hall :  she  saw  that  it  was  the  doctor. 
He  stood,  looking  about  him,  as  though  he  were  searching 
for  someone,  and  Lizzie  went  up  to  him  — 

"  Doctor,  please  tell  me  —  I'm  staying  in  the  house  —  is 
there  anything  —  anything  at  all  —  that  I  can  do?" 


328  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

The  doctor  was  tall,  thin,  black,  like  an  elongated  crow, 

"  Ah  yes  —  no,  I  think  there  is  nothing  for  the  moment  — • 
there  are  two  of  us  here  —  we  instantly  wired  to  London  and 
the  London  men  should  be  here  if  they  catch  the  seven  o'clock 
in  an  hour  and  a  half.     Lady  Seddon  is  with  her  husband." 

"There's  hope?" 

"  Oh  yes  —  I  think  Sir  Roderick  will  live  —  It's  the  spin© 
that's  damaged." 

He  seemed  to  realize  Miss  Rand's  eflficiency.  This  was  no 
ordinary  country-house  visitor.  He  went  to  the  hall  door 
and  opened  it.  "  I'm  waiting  for  the  things  from  Lewes.  I 
just  came  on  with  what  I'd  got.  Yes,  the  spine  .  .  .  afraid 
will  never  be  able  to  get  about  again  —  such  a  strong  fellow 
too." 

"  There's  nothing  I  can  do  ?  " 

"  Nothing  anyone  can  do  for  the  moment.  Lady  Seddon's 
taking  it  wonderfully,  but  she'U  want  you  later.  I  advise  you 
to  get  some  quiet  in  the  next  hour  —  it's  afterwards  that 
they'll  need  your  help " 

Lizzie  went  up  to  her  room  and  lay  down  on  her  bed. 
She  did  not  light  the  candles,  but  lay  there  in  the  darkness 
striving  to  compel  some  order  out  of  the  turmoil  that  rioted 
in  her  brain  —  her  first  thought  was  of  Roddy.  Roddy  had 
always  been  to  her  the  supreme  type  of  animal  spirits  and 
vigour  —  that  had  been,  above  everything  else,  what  he  stood 
for.     That  he  should  have  been  struck  down  like  this ! 

The  cruelty,  the  irony  of  it !  Much  better  that  he  should 
die  than  be  compelled  to  lie  on  his  back  for  the  rest  of  his  life 
■ —  anything  better  for  him  than  that  — 

If  he  died  Rachel  would  be  free.  Lizzie  faced  that  thought 
quite  calmly;  her  quarrel  with  Rachel  seemed  to  be  now 
very,  very  long  ago,  something  distant  and  remote,  something 
whose  very  conditions  had  been  torn  asunder  and  flung 
aside  — 

As  she  lay  there  tenderness  for  Rachel  came  sweeping 
about  her  — "  She  must  want  someone  now  —  she's  so  young 


LIZZIE'S  JOmtNEY  — III  329 

and  so  ignorant  —  never  had  any  crisis  like  this  to  deal  with 
—  hard  for  this  to  happen  to  him  just  after  she'd  thought 
those  things  .  .  .  that  must  be  terrible  for  her.  ,  .  ,  Oh  I 
she'll  need  someone  now." 

Something  reminded  Lizzie  of  other  things,  of  Francis 
Breton,  of  Rachel's  words,  of  Lizzie's  anger,  then  — 

"  Ah,  but  that's  all  so  long  ago.  It  doesn't  seem  to  count. 
There  are  things  more  important  than  all  of  that.  What  will 
she  do  now  ?  Perhaps  she  still  hates  me  —  won't  let  me  come 
near  her  —  it's  my  own  fault  after  all;  I  kept  away  for  so 
long,  wouldn't  let  her  come  near  me.  Oh  I  but  she  must  have 
someone  to  help  her !  " 

After  a  while  Lizzie  thought  — ^^  She  won't  be  practical  — 
she  won't  know  the  things  that  ought  to  be  done  —  I'll  wait  a 
little  and  then  I'll  go." 

Then  she  slept.  She  awoke  with  a  clear  active  brain; 
she  felt  as  though  she  could  be  awake  now  for  weeks  —  a 
tremendous  energy  filled  her.  .  .  . 

She  left  her  room  and  at  the  turn  of  the  passage  met  a 
thick-set  clean-shaven  man  whom  she  knew  for  Cramp  —  one 
of  the  most  famous  of  the  London  doctors,  a  man  whom  she 
had  sometimes  seen  with  Christopher  at  the  Portland  Place 
house. 

She  stopped  him — ^**  Pm  Miss  Rand,  Doctor  —  Lady 
Adela's  secretary  —  we've  met  in  London  —  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  how  I  can  help." 

He  shook  hands  with  her,  eyeing  her  with  approval  — 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course  —  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Rand  ? 
Yes,  you're  just  the  sort  we  want  For  the  moment  Lady 
Seddon's  my  chief  anxiety  —  she's  borne  up  splendidly  so 
far,  but  now  I  am  a  little  afraid.  I've  got  her  to  go  and  lie 
down  —  would  you  go  to  her,  Miss  Rand  ?  Just  be  with  her 
a  little  and  let  me  know  if  anything  happens " 

"Sir  Roderick?" 

"Pretty  bad,  I'm  afraid  —  He'll  live,  I  think  —  afraid 
will  never  run  about,  though,  again." 


230  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

Lizzie  made  her  way  to  Rachel's  bedroom.  She  paused 
outside  the  door.  This  was  the  very  hardest  thing  that  she 
had  ever,  in  all  her  life,  had  to  do.  If  Rachel  were  to  repulse 
her  now  it  would  surely  be  the  final  absolute  proof  that  she 
was  of  no  use,  no  use  to  anyone  in  this  whole  wide  world. 

She  knocked  on  the  door  and  went  in.     "  Who's  that  ?  '* 

"It's  I  — Lizzie." 

The  room  was  dark,  but  she  saw  that  Rachel  was  lying 
on  the  bed  —  she  went  up  to  her  —  Rachel  did  not  move. 

"  I  came,"  Lizzie  said,  "  to  see  whether  I  could  help  —  if  I 
could  do  anything " 

Rachel  said  nothing  — 

"  If  you'd  rather  —  if  you  don't  want  to  see  me,  of  course 
just  say  .  .  ." 

Rachel  turned  over  and  Lizzie  heard  her  say  — "  I  did  it  — 
I  wanted  him  —  it  was  my  fault  —  it  was  my  fault." 

Lizzie  knelt  down  beside  the  bed.  "  Rachel  dear,  you 
mustn't  think  that.  It  was  nothing  to  do  with  anyone.  But 
you  can  help  him  now,  Rachel  —  He'll  want  you,  he'll  need 
you  now  as  he's  never  wanted  anyone." 

Rachel  gave  a  bitter  cry  —  Her  hand  touched  Lizzie's,  then 
she  flung  up  her  arm,  caught  Lizzie's  neck,  drew  her  towards 
her,  put  both  her  arms  around  her  and  held  her,  held  her  as 
though  she  would  never  let  her  go. 


BOOK  III 
RODDY 


CHAPTER  I 

REGENT'S  PARK  — BRETON  AND  LIZZIE 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bright,  "he  missed  it  all  the  time.'* 

"  Missed  what  ?  "  asked  Miss  Rankin, 

"'Is  good  luck,"  sighed  Mrs.  Bright. —  Henbt  Galleoit. 


FHANCIS  BRETON  had  known,  during  the  weeks  that 
preceded  his  letter  to  Rachel,  torture  that  became  to 
him  at  last  so  personal  that  he  felt  deliberate  malignant 
agency  behind  its  ingenious  devices. 

At  first  it  had  seemed  that  that  wonderful  hour  with  Rachel 
would  satisfy  his  needs  for  a  long  time  to  come ;  he  had  only, 
when  life  was  hard,  dull,  colourless,  monotonous,  to  recall  it 
—  to  see  again  her  movements,  to  hear  her  voice,  to  remember 
to  the  last  and  tiniest  detail  the  things  that  she  had  said,  to 
feel  that  clutch  of  her  hand  upon  his  coat,  and  instantly  he 
was  inflamed,  exultant. 

So,  for  a  time,  it  was.  Into  every  moment  of  his  daily  life 
he  worked  this  scene  —  Rachel  was  always  with  him,  never, 
for  a  single  instant,  did  he  doubt  that,  in  some  fashion  or 
another,  she  was  coming  to  him.  He  had  purchased  an  inter- 
est in  some  little  business  that  had  to  do,  for  the  most  part, 
with  candles,  and  down  to  the  City  now  every  morning  he 
went.  The  candles  prospered  in  a  small  but  steady  fashion 
and  he  found  them  of  a  more  thrilling  and  romantic  interest 
than  he  would  once  have  believed  possible.  He  had  always 
known  that  he  had  a  business  head  and  now  that  his  life  waa 
equable  and  regular  he  was  astonished  at  the  useful  man  that 
he  was  becoming. 

He  liked  the  men  with  whom  he  worked,  he  found  that 
some  of  his  friends  of  the  old  days  sought  him  out  ...  he 

333 


334  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

was  assured  that  he  had  only  to  wait  for  the  death  of  his 
grandmother  for  his  restoration  to  the  Beaminster  bosom. 

He  was,  during  these  first  weeks,  tranquil,  almost  happy, 
feeling  that  Mrs.  Pont  and  the  rest  were,  with  every  hour, 
passing  more  surely  from  his  world,  nourishing  always,  like 
hoarded  treasure,  his  consciousness  of  Rachel.  .  .  . 

Then  a  faint,  a  very  faint  restlessness  crept  upon  him. 
The  repetition  of  those  precious  moments  was  growing  dry; 
from  the  very  frequency  of  their  recounting  came  impatience. 
His  assurance  that  she  would,  ultimately,  come  to  him  grew 
chill. 

He  needed  now  something  more  tangible,  and  gradually 
there  grew  with  him  the  conviction  that  she  would  write. 
She  had  said,  very  clearly  and  distinctly,  that  she  would  not 

—  but,  if  she  cared  as  he  knew  that  she  did,  then  this  silence 
must  be  as  impossible  for  her  as  for  himself. 

His  state  of  mind  now  was  that  he  expected  a  letter.  When 
he  came  back  from  the  City  at  half-past  six  or  seven  he 
expected  to  find  lying  there  on  the  green  tablecloth,  the  letter 

—  In  the  morning  his  man  appeared  with  a  jug  of  hot  water 
in  one  hand  and  the  letters  in  the  other  —  There,  one  of  those 
tantalizing,  mysterious  envelopes,  must  be  the  letter. 

At  first  disappointment  was  reassured  with  "  Oh !  it  will  be 
there  to-morrow."  But  as  the  days  passed  and  the  silence 
grew  the  torture  developed.  !N"ow  after  that  first  search  in 
the  morning,  after  that  swift  sharp  glance  to  the  green  table- 
cloth came  physical  pain  —  sickened  heavy  drooping  of  the 
spirits  when  the  world  looked  one  vast  deserted  plain  of 
monotonous  dullness,  when  the  hours  and  hours  and  days  and 
days  that  yet  remained  to  life  seemed  intolerable  in  their 
dreary  multitude. 

He  would  go  to  bed  early  in  order  that  the  morning  letters 
might  come  the  sooner ;  he  fled  home  from  the  City,  his  heart 
beating  like  a  drum,  as  he  mounted  his  stairs. 

Only  one  line,  one  line,  would  have  been  sufficient.  It 
needed  only  the  reassurance  that  she  thought  of  him,  that 


EEGENT'S  PAEK  —  BRETON  AND  LIZZIE     335 

she  still  cared  .  .  .  such  a  short  letter  would  have  given  him 
all  the  comfort  he  needed. 

The  need  for  some  sign  came  as  much  from  his  impatience 
with  the  whole  situation  as  from  his  love  for  Rachel,  but 
this,  because  he  always  saw  himself  as  a  fine  coloured  centre 
of  some  passionate  crisis,  he  naturally  did  not  perceive.  His 
whole  idea  of  Rachel  was,  as  the  days  passed,  increasingly  a 
picture  that  was  far  enough  from  reality  —  On  the  one  side 
Rachel  —  on  the  other  side  his  restoration  to  his  family  .  .  . 
now  as  he  waited  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in  danger  of 
losing  both  the  one  thing  and  the  other. 

There  was  nothing  that  so  speedily  drove  Breton  to  frenzy 
as  enforced  inaction. 

After  all,  they  had  been  together  so  little  — 

Breton  was  cursed  with  his  imagination.  All  his  instabil- 
ity of  character  came  from  his  imagination.  He  looked 
ahead  and  saw  such  wonderful  events,  he  knew  why  people  did 
this  or  that ;  he  could  see  so  clearly  what  would  happen  did  he 
act  in  such  and  such  a  way.  .  .  .  He  traced  future  action 
through  many  hazardous  windings  into  a  safe,  fair  Haven, 
and  for  the  sake  of  the  Haven  embarked  on  the  preliminary 
dangers  —  discovered,  of  course,  too  late,  that  the  Haven, 
was  a  dream.  He  saw  Rachel  now,  sitting  alone,  thinking  of 
him,  loving  him,  forcing  herself  to  be  fair  to  her  blockhead  of 
a  husband,  feeling  at  last  that  she  could  endure  it  no  longer, 
and  so  writing !  or  he  saw  her  falling  in  love  with  that  same 
blockhead,  forgetting  everyone  and  everything  else. 

In  all  of  this  his  grandmother  played  her  part.  He  was 
aware  that  behind  all  the  attraction  that  he  had  had  for 
Rachel  was  the  consciousness  that  he  was  a  rebel  against 
the  Duchess  —  they  were  rebels  together  —  that,  he  knew,  was 
the  way  that  she  thought  of  it. 

He  was  aware,  however,  that  he  was  a  rebel  only  because 
he  was  forced  to  be  one.  Let  his  grandmother  hold  out  her 
old  arms  to  him  and  into  them  he  would  run !  He  would  be 
restored  to  the  family  —  horribly  he  wanted  it !     Thb  spirit 


336  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

■with  which  he  had  returned  to  England  was  one  of  hot 
vengeance  that  would,  indeed,  have  suited  the  finest  of 
Rachel's  moods,  but  that  spirit  had,  he  knew,  subtly  changed 
—  Here  then,  with  regard  to  Rachel,  he  felt  a  traitor  — 
"Would  she  come  to  him,  why  then  he  would  do  anything  for 
her  even  to  pulling  the  Duchess's  nose  —  but  if  she  would 
not  come  to  him,  why  then  he  would  rather  that  the  Beamin- 
sters  should  take  him  to  themselves  and  make  him  one  of 
them. 

But  he  felt  —  although  he  had  no  tangible  arguments  to 
support  his  feeling  —  that  the  old  lady  was  "  round  the  cor- 
ner " — "  she  knows,  you  bet,  all  about  things  - —  what  I'd 
give  for  just  one  talk  with  her.  ...  I  believe  we'd  be 
friends " 

His  weakness  of  character  came,  as  he  himself  knew,  from 
his  inability  to  allow  life  to  stay  at  a  good  safe  dull  level. 
"  To-day's  dull  —  Something  must  happen  before  evening ;  I 
must  make  it  happen,"  and  then  he  would  go  and  do  some- 
thing foolish  — 

London  excited  him  —  the  lighted  shops,  the  smell  of  food 
and  flowers  and  women  and  leather  and  tobacco,  the  sky  — 
signs  flashing  from  space  to  space,  the  carts  and  omnibuses, 
the  shouts  and  cries  and  sudden  silences,  the  confused  life 
of  the  place  so  that  you  could  never  say,  ''  This  is  London," 
but  could  only,  in  retrospect  say,  "  Ah,  that  must  have  been 
London,"  and  still  know  that  you  had  failed  to  grasp  its 
secret. 

The  dirt  and  shabbiness  and  lack  of  plan  and  good  humour 
and  crime  and  indecency  and  priggishness  —  its  life ! 

Many  things  out  of  all  this  glory  called  him  —  racing, 
women,  drink,  the  gutter  one  minute,  the  stars  the  next  — 
from  them  all  he  held  himself  aloof  because  of  Rachel  .  .  . 
and  Rachel  meanwhile  perhaps  did  not  care. 

As  Christmas  approached  he  became  utterly  obsessed  by 
this  one  thought  —  that  he  must  have  a  letter.  His  obsession 
had  been  able,  during  these  weeks,  to  clutch  the  tighter  in 


EEGENT'SPAEE:  — BRETOIT  AND  LIZZIE     33t 

that  he  had  seen  nothing  of  Lizzie  Rand.  Throughout  the 
autumn  he  had  encountered  her  very  seldom  — 

Ever  since  that  night  in  the  summer  when  he  had  taken 
her  to  the  theatre  she  had  avoided  him,  and  he  decided  that 
she  had  been  shocked  at  his  confession  about  Rachel  — "  You 
never  know  about  women  —  I  shouldn't  have  thought  that 
would  have  shocked  her  —  But  there  it  is;  you  never  can 
telL"  Lizzie  had  been  very  good  to  him;  he  missed  her 
now.     He  would  tackle  her,  he  said,  one  day. 

Then  not  only  with  every  day,  but  with  every  hour  the 
torture  grew.  He  avoided  Christopher,  because  Christopher 
might  see  things.  His  work  faded  like  mist  from  before 
him  —  He  could  not  sleep,  but  lay  on  his  back  thinking  of 
what  she  would  say  if  she  did  write,  whether  she  were  think- 
ing of  him  —  how  she  found  his  own  silence  and  what  she 
felt  about  it. 

Then  he  heard  the  astonishing  news  that  Lizzie  Rand  had 
gone  down  to  Seddon  to  stay.  ...  At  first  he  thought  that 
he  would  write  to  her  and  beg  her  to  find  out  for  him  all  that 
she  could  as  to  Rachel's  mind. 

But  Lizzie's  avoidance  of  him  checked  him  there  —  if  shei 
had  been  shocked  at  his  just  telling  her,  why  then  she  would 
not  be  likely  to  help  him  now  —  No,  that  would  not  be  fair  to 
Rachel.  .  .  . 

It  occurred  to  him  then  that  Rachel  had  asked  Lizzie  in 
order  that  she  might  speak  of  him,  have  with  her  someone 
who  could  teU  her  about  his  daily  life,  and  so,  without  break- 
ing her  word,  yet  be  in  some  kind  of  communication  with 
him  — 

Soon  this  became  with  him  a  certainty.  It  assured  him 
that  her  patience  was  exhausted  and  that  she  would  forgive, 
and  more  than  forgive,  a  letter  from  him. 

He  wrote  —  then  in  an  agony  would  have  snatched  it  back 
again,  and  yet  was  glad  that  the  post  had  taken  it  from  him. 
Ee  had  broken  his  word,  and  shown  himself  for  the  miserable 
poor  creature  that  he  was.     She  would  never  trust  him  again. 


838  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

but  surely  now  she  would  write  were  it  only  to  dismiss  him 
for  ever. 

He  waited  and  the  agony  once  again  grew  phantasmal  in  its 
terrors;  then  swiftly  came  word  first  that  Roddy  Seddon 
had  been  flung  from  his  horse  and  was  hovering  between  life 
and  death,  then  that  he  would  not  die,  but  — "  Paralysis  of 
the  spine  —  always  have  to  lie  on  his  back,  I'm  afraid  "  (thi? 
from  Christopher) — then,  finally  this  note: 

"  Seddon  Court, 

Near  Lewes, 

Sussex. 
Dear  Mr.  Breton, 

I  have  to  come  up  to  London  next  Tuesday  for  the 
day  —  I  shall  return  here  that  same  evening.  I  have  a 
message  for  you.  Could  we  have  tea  together  that  after- 
noon —  or  what  do  you  say  to  a  walk  in  Regent's  Park  ? 
Perhaps  we  could  talk  there  more  easily  —  I'll  meet  you 
at  the  entrance  to  the  Botanical  Gardens  about  3.30  un- 
less I  hear  from  you. 

Yours  sincerely, 

E.  Rand." 

n 

The  effect  upon  him  of  Roddy's  accident  was  indescribabls. 
He  was  sorry,  terribly  sorry  —  dreadful  for  a  man  whose 
whole  interests  are  in  physical  things  to  be  laid  on  his  back, 
like  this,  for  ever.  Surely  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  die, 
and  then,  at  that,  sober  thought  would  forsake  him  —  He  did 
not  wish  Seddon  to  die,  but  around  the  possibility  of  it,  always 
turning,  wheeling,  his  mind  fluttered. 

He  did  not  know  what  Lizzie  would  have  to  say  to  him, 
but,  at  his  heart,  he  expected  triumph  —  with  so  little  en- 
couragement, he  would  wait  so  faithfully  — 

It  was  a  cold  windy  afternoon  of  early  spring  and  up  to 
the  gates  of  the  Botanical  Gardens  little  eddies  came  sweejj- 


EEGENT'SPARE:  — BEETOI^  AND  LIZZIE     339 

ing :  twigs  and  dust  and  pieces  of  paper  tossing,  under  a  grey 
sky,  beneath,  branches  that  creaked  and  strained;  Breton 
stood  there  impatiently ;  he  was  ten  minutes  before  his  time ; 
this  biting  windy  world  took  from  him  his  confidence  .  .  . 
a  dirty  little  brown  dog  walked  round  and  round,  wagging, 
now  and  again,  a  pessimistic  tail. 

There  at  last  she  was,  coming,  as  orderly  and  neat  as  ever, 
up  the  road ;  her  grey  dress,  her  little  shining  shoes,  her  hair 
that  no  breeze  could  disturb,  her  expression  as  though  she 
were  ready  for  anything  and  would  be  surprised  at  nothing 
—  these  all,  to-day,  irritated  Mm.  Good  heavens!  was  she 
so  surely  tied  to  her  typewriter  that  she  could  understand 
nothing  of  the  emotions  that  an  ordinary  human  being  might 
be  feeling?  Had  she  no  imagination?  Because  she  had 
never  herself  known  sentiment  about  anyone  alive  was  it  be- 
yond her  to  consider  what  others  might  encounter  ? 

Breton  would  have  preferred  any  other  ambassador  in  this 
affair  than  the  neat,  efficient  Miss  Rand,  forgetting  that  there 
had  been  a  time  when  lie  had  cbosen  her  as  his  one  and  only 
confidante. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Breton  ?  "  she  said,  giving  him  her 
little  gloved  hand. 

"  It's  just  struck  —  I  was  a  little  early,"  he  answered,  feel- 
ing confused  and  hating  himself  for  his  confusion  — 

"  Let's  go  round  to  the  left  here  and  turn  over  the  bridge 
and  then  out  past  the  Zoo  and  back  —  That  makes  quite  a 
good  round." 

"  Yes  " —  he  said. 

"  I  chose  the  Park  because  I  thought  that  we  could  talk 
better  —  We  might  have  been  interrupted  at  home." 

He  caught  then  a  little  tremor  in  her  voice  and  was  grateful 
for  it.  She  did  feel  a  little  that  this  was  important  for 
him ;  she  sympathized  perhaps  more  than  he  should  have  ex- 
pected. 

"Let's  come  straight  to  the  point,  Miss  Band,"  he  said, 
**  you  have  a  message  for  me." 


340  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

She  nodded,  felt  in  the  pocket  of  her  dress  and  produced 
an  envelope,  which  she  gave  him. 

"  She  thought  it  better  that  I  should  give  it  you  like  this 
because  then  I  could  say  something  as  well  —  something  she 
has  asked  me  to  say " 

His  hand  trembled  as  he  saw  the  writing  on  the  envelope  — 
'*  Francis  Breton,  Esq.,  24  Saxton  Square  *' —  During  what 
months  and  months  he  had  longed  for  that  handwriting  and 
how  often  had  he  imagined  that  letter  lying,  just  as  it  lay 
now,  in  his  hand  — 

He  read  it,  Lizzie  walking  gravely  at  his  side  — 

"  This  letter  is  not  easy  to  write  and  you  must  realize 
that  and  forgive  me  if  I  have  not  put  things  properly. 
These  last  weeks  have  all  made  such  a  demand  on  me  that 
I'm  tired  out.  .  .  , 

I  said  once,  Francis  dear,  that  I  would  not  write  to  you 
until  I  meant  to  come  to  you.  I^ow  I  have  broken  my 
word  —  This  is  to  tell  you  that  everything,  anything,  that 
we  have  felt  for  one  another  must  be  ended,  now  and  for 
ever. 

Don't  think  that  I  am  angry  with  you  for  writing  to 
me.  Perhaps  I  should  have  been,  but  I  understood  — 
Only  now  all  my  life  must  be  always,  entirely,  devoted  to 
my  husband.  That  is  now  all  that  I  live  for.  I  feel  as 
though  in  some  way  I  had  been  responsible  for  the  dis- 
aster ;  at  any  rate  his  bravery  and  pluck  are  wonderful 
and  it  is  a  small  thing  that  I  can  do  to  make  his  life  as 
easy  as  I  can,  but  it  will  take  the  whole  of  me. 

Perhaps  after  a  time  we  shall  meet  —  one  day  be 
friends  —  I  can't  look  ahead  or  look  back ;  I  only  know 
that  I  am  now  absolutely,  entirely,  my  husband's  — 

Don't  hate  mo  for  this  —  it  was  taken  out  of  our  hands. 
I've  asked  Lizzie  Hand  to  give  you  this.  She  knows 
everything  and  it  would  make  me  happy  to  think  that  you 
two  had  become  great  friends." 


REGENT'S  PARK  —  BRETOIT  AOT)  LIZZIE     341 

They  had  crossed  the  little  bridge,  left  behind  them  the 
Btrange  birds  that  chattered  beneath  it,  and  had  passed  into 
the  wide  green  spaces,  often  given  up  to  cricket  or  football, 
now  empty  of  any  human  being  —  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
a  deserted  bandstand,  a  fringe  of  trees  on  which  the  first  tiny 
leaves  were  shovsdng;  above  them  the  grey  sky  had  broken 
into  blue  and  white,  the  cloud  shaped  with  ribs  and  fleecy 
softness  like  a  huge  wing  stretching  above  them  from  horizon 
to  horizon. 

Over  the  two  of  them,  so  tiny  on  that  broad  expanse,  this 
wing  brooded  tenderly,  gravely  — 

Breton  had  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand  and  stood  look- 
ing in  front  of  him,  but  seeing  nothing.  His  one  thought 
WHS  that  he  had  been  brutally  treated, —  she  had  simply, 
without  a  thought,  without  a  care,  flung  him  aside. 

He  had,  of  course,  known  that  this  accident  to  her  husband 
must,  for  a  time,  hold  her,  but  now,  in  this  fashion,  she  had 
passed  on  without  hesitation  —  leaving  him  anywhere,  any- 
how ;  was  it  so  long  ago  that  she  had  said  to  him  that,  whether 
she  came  to  him  or  no  she  would  always  love  him?  Had 
ahe  already  forgotten  that  kiss,  that  moment  when  she  had 
clung  to  him,  held  to  him  ? 

He  stood  there,  filled  with  self-pity.  This  restraint,  this 
self -discipline  all  done  for  her  and  now  all  useless.  It  was 
not  wanted;  he  was  not  wanted.  .  .  . 

Had  she  only  preserved  some  relationship,  told  him  to  wait, 
assured  him  that  he  meant  something  to  her,  anything  but 
this  — 

But  there  was  greater  pain  at  Breton's  heart  than  thought 
of  Rachel  brought  him.  To  every  man  comes  in  due  time  the 
instant  of  revelation ;  it  had  flashed  before  Breton  now. 

He  saw  that  his  relationship  with  Rachel  was  at  an  end, 
utterly  —  However  he  might  delude  himself  that,  in  his  soul, 
he  knew.  There  had  been  a  moment  when  they  had  met  and 
the  moment  had  passed.  But  he  saw  more  than  this.  He 
saw  that  he  was  a  man  to  whom  life  had  always  been  a  sue- 


342  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

cession  of  moments  —  moments  flashing,  stinging,  flying,  gone 
—  he,  always,  helpless  to  grasp  and  hold. 

Had  he,  on  that  day,  been  strong,  held  Rachel,  conquered 
her,  made  her  his.  .  .  .  He  was  weak  through  the  fine  things 
in  him  as  surely  as  through  the  base  —  His  ideals  forced  his 
purpose  to  tremble  as  often  as  his  regrets.  .  .  . 

Standing  there,  he  faced  himself  and  saw  that,  whether  for 
good  or  evil.  Life  for  him  had  always  been  evasive,  fluid,  a 
thing  grasped  at  but  never  caught. 

Eachel  was  not  for  such  as  he  — 

Lizzie  had  watched  him  and  her  face  had  grown  very  tender 
— "  I  know  I'm  a  nuisance  just  now,"  she  said  — "  it  hasn't, 
naturally,  been  a  very  pleasant  thing  for  me  to  have  to  do  — 
but  I  thought  that  I  could  tell  you  a  little  about  her  —  I've 
seen  her  through  all  of  this." 

He  strode  along  fiercely,  his  eyes  staring  in  front  of  him ; 
he  looked,  she  thought,  like  a  boy  who  had  been  forbidden 
some  longed-for  pleasure;  she  found  it  difficult  to  keep  pace 
with  him. 

"  She's  so  very,  very  young,"  Lizzie  went  on,  "  I  expect 
you  forget  that  —  she's  filled,  above  everything  else,  with  a 
determination  to  express  her  own  individuality,  a  protest, 
you  know,  against  its  having  been  squashed  by  her  family. 

"  Anything  that  helps  her  to  express  it  she  seizes  on.  You 
helped  her  —  she  seized  on  you.  'Now  all  her  heart  is  stirred 
by  this  disaster  to  her  husband,  the  most  active  person  she's 
ever  known  absolutely  helpless,  so  now  that  has  seized  her. 
She  can't  have  two  things  in  her  mind  at  once  —  that's  where 
her  troubles  come  from  —  she  cares  for  you.  You'll  always 
be  something  to  her  that  no  one  else  can  ever  be,  and  oh !  it's 
so  much  better,  so  much,  much  better,  than  if  you'd  gone  off, 
made  a  mess  of  it  all,  spoilt  all  your  beautiful  ideas  of  one 
another." 

The  thrill  in  her  voice  made  him,  even  though  he  was 
intensely  concerned  with  his  own  wrongs  and  losses,  consider 
her.     What  Lizzie  Rand  was  this?     It  flung  him  back,  al- 


EEGENT'SPARK  — BEETON  AND  LIZZIE     343 

most  against  his  will,  as  thougli  he  hated  to  throw  over  all 
the  ideas  he  had  formed  of  her,  to  that  first  meeting  when  they 
had  stood  at  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the  grey  square 
and  he  had  called  it  the  Pool.  Then  he  had  suspected  her  of 
emotion  and  sentiment ;  it  was  afterwards,  when  he  had  made 
her  his  wise  Counsellor  and  common-sense  Adviser,  that  he 
had  thought  of  her  as  unemotional. 

He  felt  now  that  he  had  been  treating  her  rather  badly. 
He  stopped  abruptly  and  looked  down  at  her ;  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  earnest  gaze  at  him,  something  rather  nervous 
and  hesitating  that  did  not  belong  at  all  to  the  eflScient  Miss 
Rand. 

"  It  is  good  of  you.  Miss  Rand,  to  have  come  and  given  me 
this  note.  I'm  finding  it  all  rather  difficult  at  the  moment, 
as  I'm  sure  you'll  understand.  I'd  better  go  off  somewhere 
by  myself  a  bit,  I  think,  but  it  was  good  of  you."  He  broke 
off  and  stared  desolately  about  him.  He  was  not  very  far 
from  tears,  she  thought. 

She  too  remembered  their  first  meeting.  She  had  found 
him  melodramatic  then,  a  little  insincere  —  'Now  she  knew 
that  she  had  been  wrong.  He  was  sincere  as  a  child  is  sin- 
cere; the  world  was  utterly  black,  was  transcendently  bright 
as  it  was  for  a  child. 

She  understood  him  so  well  —  so  much  better  than  Rachel. 
She  knew  that  neither  he  nor  Rachel  would  ever  have  had  the 
wisdom  to  endure  that  romantic  impatience  that  was  in  both 
of  them  — "  They  would  have  been  fighting  in  a  week  —  But 
I  —  should  know  how  to  deal  with  him ^" 

The  green  park  and  the  brooding  sky  seemed  to  join  in  her 
tenderness  —  She  had  never  loved  him  so  surely,  so  unselfishly 
as  she  loved  him  now. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  I  wrote  to  her  .  .  .  did  she 
tell  you  anything  about  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Lizzie  answered  — "  I  don't  know  what  might  have 
happened  if  he  hadn't  had  the  accident.  .  .  .  But  as  it  is,  I 
know  she's  glad  you  wrote  —  She  likes  to  look  back  on  it,  but 


344  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

it's  on  something  that  died  —  gone  altogether.  And  ifs 
much,  much  better  so." 

"  To  you,"  he  said,  "  it  may  be  so." 

*'  Only  because  through  these  weeks  I've  got  to  know  her 
so  well.  She's  strange  —  unlike  any  other  woman  I've 
known.  Her  great  charm  is  that  she's  so  unattainable.  Men 
will  always  love  her  for  that  and  sometimes  she  may  think 
she  loves  them  in  return,  but  no  man  will  ever  call  the  real 
woman  out  of  her.  If  she  were  to  have  a  child,  perhaps  that 
would  .  .  .  but  we  —  all  of  us  —  you,  I,  Br.  Christopher, 
her  husband  —  all  of  us  who  love  her  will  always  love  her 
without  quite  knowing  why  and  without,  in  the  end,  her  be- 
longing to  any  one  of  us. 

"  I've  grown  to  love  her  during  these  last  weeks  and  I've 
thought  it  was  because  I  was  sorry  for  her  and  admired  her 
pluck  —  but  it  isn't  that  really  —  It's  simply  because  — well, 
because  —  there's  something  wonderful  in  her  that  isn't  for 
any  of  us." 

"  Well,  you've  been  very  kind,  Miss  Eand,  I  shan't  forget 
it.  You've  said  just  the  thing  to  put  it  all  straight  and 
clear.  I  wouldn't  do  anything  now  to  disturb  her  or  hurt 
her  husband,  poor  devil  ...  it  must  be  hell  for  him  .  .  , 
and  it  don't  anyway  matter  much  what  happens  to  me  —  it 
never  has  done. 

"  You've  been  a  brick.  If  you  really  care  to  bother  about 
a  rotten  waster  like  myself  I'll  be  proud.  .  .  .  Good-bye  and 
thank  you " 

He  took  her  hand  and  shook  it  and  then  was  gone,  striding 
off,  furiously,  towards  the  trees. 

She  walked  slowly  back  to  Saxton  Square. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  DUCHESS  MOVES 

"Fear  of  the  loss  of  power  has  more  to  do  with  disasters  in  the 
history  of  nations  than  any  other  motive." 

James  Anthony  Fboudb. 


TEOUBLE  invaded  the  strongholds  of  104  Portland 
Place  that  winter:  The  Duchess  was  not  so  well 
...  no  evasions,  whether  above  or  below  stairs,  could  con- 
ceal the  harsh  truth.     The  Duchess  was  not  so  well.  .  .  . 

To  the  bewildered  mind  of  Lady  Adela  the  horrid  succes- 
sion of  disasters  that  the  winter  had  provided  no  other  years 
could  equal.  It  had  all  begun,  she  often  fancied,  from  the 
day  of  Rachel's  coming  out,  from  the  ball,  or  even,  although 
for  this  she  could  not  find  a  real  excuse,  from  that  visit  to 
the  Bond  Street  Picture  Gallery.  It  was  on  that  afternoon, 
Lady  Adela  well  remembered,  that  there  had  first  come  to 
her  those  strange,  treacherous  thoughts  about  her  mother  that 
had,  afterwards,  as  they  had  grown  stronger  and  more  formid- 
able, changed  life  for  her.  Yes,  it  had  seemed  that,  with 
Rachel's  appearance  before  the  world,  disaster  to  the  Beam- 
ister  house  had  appeared  also.  Her  mother's  illness,  the  War, 
perpetual  rumours  of  Rachel's  unsatisfactory  marriage,  the 
uncomfortable  presence  of  Prank  Breton,  the  horrible  disaster 
to  poor  Roddy  —  how  they  trooped  before  Lady  Adela's  eyes ! 
Pinally,  more  terrible  than  all  of  them,  was  the  complete  de- 
struction of  the  old  fiction,  the  old  terror,  the  old  submission. 
Lady  Adela  did  not  now  dare  to  look  into  her  mind  because 
of  the  horrible  things  that  she  found  there. 

Roddy's  accident  had  had  the  most  terrible  effect  upon  the 
Duchess.  Only  Christopher  could  really  tell  how  Her  Grace 
had  taken  it,  but  throughout  the  house,  it  was  understood 
that  the  effect  of  it  had  been  serious.     "  Wouldn't  give  her 

345 


346  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

long  now,"  said  Mr.  ITorris.  "  What  with  this  War  and 
what  not  she  was  goin'  as  it  was,  and  now  Sir  Roderick,  as 
was  always,  as  you  might  say,  her  pet,  having  this  awful  dis- 
aster —  no,  I  don't  give  her  long." 

Adela  of  course  saw  nothing  of  her  mother's  feelings ;  she 
never  had  been  allowed  to  see  anything  of  them  and  she  was 
not  allowed  now. 

The  old  lady  was  outwardly  as  she  had  ever  been,  although 
she  spoke  less  and,  if  you  watched  her,  you  could  see  some- 
times that  her  hands  were  shaking.  She  used  paint  for  her 
cheeks  and  she  rouged  her  lips.  Her  love  of  fantastic  things 
had  grown  very  much,  and,  on  the  little  table  behind  her 
chair,  there  was  a  row  of  strange  china  animals  and  some 
Indian  dolls  with  wooden  limbs  that  jangled  when  you  touched 
them. 

But  Adela  was  no  longer  afraid  of  her  mother.  Stimulate 
it  as  she  would,  force  upon  herself  her  sensations  of  the  days 
when  she  had  been  afraid,  as  she  did,  still  the  terror  would 
not  now  confront  her.  There  had  been  a  dreadful  scene  when 
the  Duchess  had  been  told  that  her  daughter  was  acting  on 
the  same  committee  as  Mrs.  Bronson,  the  dazzling  American 
...  a  terrible  scene  .  ,  .  but  Adela  had  come  through  it 
without  a  tremor  —  it  had  not  affected  her  at  all.  "  It  isn't 
that  I've  changed  much  either.  I'm  just  as  nervoua  of  other 
things  —  I'm,  just  the  same  coward.  .  .  ." 

Perhaps  it  was,  a  little,  that  the  war  had  altered  one's 
values  —  So  many  Beaminster  necessities  were  not  quite  so 
necessary  — 

Certainly  John  felt  the  same,  and  the  one  consolation  to 
Adela,  through  all  this  horrible  time,  was  that  she  had  grown 
nearer  to  John  than  she  had  ever  been  to  anyone  —  John  and 
she  had  been  attacked  by  the  Real  World,  both  of  them  at 
the  same  moment,  and  they  did  find  comfort,  at  this  terri- 
fying crisis,  in  being  together. 

But  all  Adela's  energy  was  directed  towards  concealing 
from  her  mother  that  there  was  an^  change  at  aU  — "  She 


THE  DUCHESS  MOVES  ur 

must  think  that  things  are  just  the  same,  exactly  the  same. 
She  mustn't  ever  know  that  .  .  .  well,  that  .  .  ." 

She  could  not  put  it  into  words.  Her  Grace's  illness  was 
never  alluded  to  by  any  member  of  the  household. 

There  came  word,  at  the  beginning  of  March,  that  Roddy 
had  been  moved  up  to  London,  that  Rachel  had  taken  a  little 
house  in  York  Terrace  overlooking  Regent's  Park,  that  Roddy 
was  wonderfully  cheerful,  suffered  pain  at  times,  but  was, 
on  the  whole,  marvellous  — 

Two  or  three  days  after  this  news  when  Christopher  ar- 
rived at  104  on  his  usual  morning  visit  Lord  John  met  him 
in  the  hall. 

"  I  say,  come  in  here  a  minute,"  he  said,  leading  the  way 
into  his  own  little  smoking-room  —  Lord  John  was  fatter, 
scarcely  now  as  rubicund,  as  shining  as  he  had  been  —  as  neat 
and  clean  as  ever,  but  there  were  lines  on  his  forehead,  and 
in  his  eye,  that  glance  of  surprise  that  had  always  been  there 
had  advanced  into  one  of  alarm  — 

"  What  the  devil  is  life  going  to  do,  what  horrible  trick  is  it 
up  to  next  ?  "  he  seemed  to  say  — 

"  Look  here,  Christopher,"  he  brought  out,  when  the  door 
was  closed.  "  There's  the  devil  and  all  to  pay.  My  mother 
declares  this  morning  that  she's  going  to  pay  a  visit  to 
Roddy!" 

"  Well  ?  "     Christopher  seemed  amused. 

"  But  .  .  .  Good  heavens !  "  John  was  aghast  — "  She 
hasn't  stirred  out  of  her  room  for  thirty  years!  She  .  .  . 
she  .  .  .  it'll  kill  her!" 

*'  Oh !  no,  it  won't  — "  Christopher  answered,  *'  not  if  she 
really  means  to  do  it.  Of  course  she  can't  walk  much  — 
she  won't  have  to  —  We  can  get  her  downstairs,  and  Roddy's 
room  in  York  Terrace  is  on  the  ground  floor  —  We'll  have  to 
see  she  doesn't  catch  cold  —  She'll  have  to  choose  a  warm 
day." 

"  She  says  she's  going  this  afternoon !  "  said  Lord  John, 
still  overwhelmed  by  this  amazing  development. 


348  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  Well,  to-day  won't  do  any  harm " 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.  The  danger  with  your  mother  has  always 
been  to  stop  her  inclinations.  Indulge  'em  all  the  time  if 
you  can,  let  her  say  what  she  wishes,  do  what  she  wishes.  If 
you  were  to  carry  her  out  of  doors  against  her  will,  why  it 
would  do  a  great  deal  of  harm  indeed  —  but  if  she  wants  to 
go  she'll  see  that  she's  up  to  it.  It  may  be  the  best  thing  for 
her.  She  could  have  gone  out  heaps  of  times  in  the  last 
thirty  years  if  she'd  wished  to !  " 

Lord  John  rubbed  his  forehead  — 

"  It's  a  great  relief  to  hear  you  say  that,  Christopher.  I 
didn't  know  how  we  were  going  to  get  out  of  it.  She  was  so 
determined  this  morning " 

He  broke  off  — "  You're  sure  it  won't  do  any  harm  ?  "  ho 
said  again. 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Christopher. 

"  There's  something,"  Lord  John  went  on  again,  "  dread- 
fully on  my  mother's  mind  —  She  seems  to  feel  that,  in  some 
way  or  other,  she  was  responsible  for  his  accident.  I  can't 
get  at  the  bottom  of  it  all  and  of  course  she  won't  tell  me  — 
she  never  tells  me  things.  Perhaps  you  can  get  at  it.  I  saw 
Rachel  yesterday." 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  She's  very  fair  about  it  all.  Must  be  having  a  very  hard 
time.  She  was  glad  to  see  me,  I  think,  but  — "  he  added  a 
little  wistfully  — "  I've  never  been  anything  to  her  since  her 
marriage. 

"  She  just  seemed  not  to  want  me  after  that,  and  I'd  been 
a  good  deal  to  her  before.  When  one's  getting  old,  Christo- 
pher, we  old  bachelors,  we  begin  to  notice  that  nobody  wants 
us  very  much." 

Christopher  looked  at  him  —  Yes,  John  Beaminster  had 
changed  in  the  last  year.  Had  he  himself,  he  wondered,  also 
changed  ? 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  smiling.     "  But  I've  been  an  old  bachelor, 


THE  DUCHESS  MOVES  349 

Beaminster,  for  years  and  years  and  I  see  no  likelihood  of 
your  ever  being  one.  You  get  younger  with  every  year,  I 
believe." 

"  This  accident  to  Koddy,"  John  said  slowly,  as  though  ho 
were  thinking  it  all  out,  "has  upset  us  all.  It  seems  so 
terrible,  happening  to  him  .  .  .  much  worse  for  him  .  .  . 
and  then  Rachel  —  But  look  here,  I  know  you've  got  to  go  up 
to  my  mother,  I  won't  keep  you  a  minute  —  But  there's  a 
thing  I've  got  to  talk  to  you  about  —  It's  been  on  my  con- 
science now  for  ages.  .  .  .  I've  not  known  what  to  do  .  .  . 
at  last  I've  made  up  my  mind." 

John  Beaminster  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  something 
that  he  hated !  To  Christopher  perhaps  more  than  to  anyone 
else  in  the  world  this  was  a  revelation  of  the  most  vital,  the 
most  moving  interest  —  He  had  known  John  for  so  long,  seen 
him  struggling  behind  screens  and  curtains,  hugging  to  him- 
self the  happy  knowledge  that  to  the  very  end  he  would  be 
able  to  keep  life  from  getting  at  him,  and  now  behold !  Life 
had  got  at  him,  was  clutching  him  by  the  throat. 

"  It's  about  Frank  " —  at  last  he  desperately  brought  out 
— "  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I  must  go  and  see  him  —  now, 
perhaps  whilst  mother  is  —  is  still  suffering  from  the  effects 
of  Roddy's  accident  it  wouldn't  be  wise  perhaps  to  have  him 
here,  actually  in  the  house  —  But  something  must  be  done. 
.  .  .  Adela  agrees." 

Adela  agrees!  Well,  if  the  old  woman  upstairs  .  .  . 
Christopher  was  moved,  as  he  had  lately  been  often  moved, 
by  a  swift  stirring  of  pathos. 

"  You  see,  this  War  has  upset  us  all  so,  has  made  one  feel 
differently  —  And  then  he  really  does  seem  to  have  changed, 
been  as  quiet  as  anything  all  this  time,  and  I  hear  that  he's 
working  at  something  sensible  down  in  the  City.  I  must  go 
and  see  him " 

Then  they  hadn't  heard,  Christopher  knew,  of  any  rumours 
about  Rachel  and  Francis. 

Perhaps  there  were  no  rumours,  perhaps  only  in  the  mind 


350  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

of  the  old  lady.  .  .  .  But  then  let  John  say  a  word  to  her 
about  this  visit  to  Breton  and  out  she  would  come  with  it  all. 

"  Yes,  Beaminster,"  Christopher  said.  "  Of  course  I'm 
delighted.  It's  just  what  I  hoped  would  happen,  but  perhaps, 
as  your  mother  has  been  rather  upset  lately  it  would  be  just 
as  well  to  say  nothing  to  her.  .  .  ." 

"  Quite  so.  .  .  ."  John  looked  away,  out  of  the  window 
—  Poor  John ! 

Christopher  held  out  his  hand,  and  John  took  it  and  for  a 
moment  they  stood  there,  then  Christopher  went  upstairs. 

II 

Dorchester  no  longer  asserted  that  her  mistress  was  "  bet- 
ter than  she  had  ever  been  " —  Since  that  terrible  morning 
when  Dr.  Christopher  had  broken  the  news  of  Sir  Roderick's 
accident  Dorchester  had  made  no  pretence  about  anything. 
This  was  the  time  that  must,  she  had  always  known,  one  day 
arrive,  but  what  she  had  not  known  was  that  it  would  be  quite 
like  this. 

She  was  a  woman  of  some  imagination;  moreover,  were 
there  one  person  in  the  world  who  touched  her  heart,  then  was 
it  her  mistress;  she  had  penetrated,  she  thought,  some  of 
the  strange  secrets  and  fantasies  of  that  old  woman's  soul, 
and  it  seemed  that  now,  in  these  later  days,  she  was  at  last 
in  touch  with  every  motive  and  grim  artifice  that  her  mistress 
adopted  — 

But  no  —  since  that  terrible  day  at  the  beginning  of  the 
year  Dorchester  had  lost  touch,  was  left,  bewildered,  at  a  loss, 
as  though  she  were  suddenly  in  the  service  of  some  stranger. 

She  had  known  that  nothing  more  terrible  could  happen 
to  her  mistress  than  this  —  When  she  heard  it  she  said  to 

herself,   "This  will  kill  her  — bound  to "     She  had 

known  too  that  her  mistress  would  not  flinch,  outwardly,  and 
that  to  the  ordinary  observer  there  would  be  no  sign,  but  the 
thing  for  which  she  had  not  been  prepared  was  this  silence, 


THE  DUCHESS  MOVES  351 

d  silence  so  profound  and  yet  so  eloquent  that  one  could 
obtain  from  it  no  clue,  could  discern  no  visible  wound,  but 
daily,  almost  hourly,  as  she  sat  there,  change  was  at  work 
.  .  .  she  was  dying  before  their  eyes  — 

What  Dorchester  did  not  know  was  that  the  Duchess  had 
been  aware,  for  a  long  time,  that  this  was  to  occur,  if  not 
exactly  this,  why,  then,  something  like  it. 

All  through  that  autumn  she  had  sat  there  waiting  —  the 
War,  the  rebellion  of  her  children  —  it  only  needed  that 
disaster  should  overtake  Koddy  and  the  circle  was  complete. 

She  did  not  doubt  that  it  was  because  he  had  married 
Rachel  that  this  had  happened  to  him,  and  she  might  have 
prevented  his  marriage  to  Eachel  had  she  wished. 

The  girl  had  now  for  her  sitting  there  in  her  room  the  fatal 
inevitability  of  some  hostile  spirit.  She  saw  all  her  past 
years  as  a  duel  with  this  girl,  the  one  soul  in  rebellion  against 
hers.  Eachel  had  taken  everything  from  her;  she  had  first 
stirred  Adela  and  John  into  rebellion,  she  had  encouraged 
Francis  Breton,  she  had  destroyed  Roddy  .  .  .  she  rose,  be- 
fore the  old  woman's  eyes,  black,  titanic,  sweeping,  with  great 
dark  wings,  across  the  horizon. 

The  Duchess  did  not  in  so  many  words  state  that  Rachel 
had  flung  her  husband  from  his  horse  and  then  watched 
whilst  his  body  was  dragged  along  the  stones,  but,  in  some 
way,  the  girl  had  plotted  it. 

The  old  woman  had  indeed  during  these  last  months  suf- 
fered from  visions.  There  were  days  when  her  brain  was 
as  clear  as  it  had  ever  been  and  on  these  days  she  thought 
more  of  Roddy  than  of  Rachel,  ached  to  be  with  him,  longed 
to  comfort  him  and  make  life  bearable  for  him,  cursed  what- 
ever fate  it  was  that  had  ordained  that  upon  him  of  all  people 
such  a  burden  should  have  fallen.  Then  there  were  other 
days  when  the  old  china  dragons  seemed  more  real  than  Dor- 
chester, when  shapes  and  sizes  altered  in  an  instant,  when 
the  cushion  at  her  feet  was  swollen  like  a  mountain,  when 


^52  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

she  seemed  floating  through  space,  looking  down  upon  houses, 
cities,  mountains,  when  only  like  a  jangling  chain  upon  which 
everything  hung,  ran  her  hatred  of  her  granddaughter. 

On  such  a  day  if  Rachel  had  come  to  her  and  she  had  been 
alone  with  her,  she  would  have  wished  the  dragons  to  devour 
her,  would  have  urged  the  silver  Indian  snake  on  the  little 
black  table  to  have  strangled  her.  On  such  a  day  she  would 
sit  hour  after  hour  and  wonder  what  she  could  do  to  her 
granddaughter.  .  .  . 

It  was  upon  one  of  her  clear  days  that  it  flashed  upon  her 
that  she  would  go  and  see  Roddy.  Beyond  the  actual  excite- 
ment of  visiting  Roddy  there  was  the  determination  to  show 
the  world  what  she  still  could  do.  Doubtless  they  were  say- 
ing out  there  that  she  was  bedridden  now,  ill,  helpless,  dying 
even  .  .  .  well,  she  would  show  them. 

Eor  thirty  years  she  had  not  been  outside  her  door  —  now, 
because  she  wished  it,  she  would  go. 

She  said  nothing  to  Adela  about  this  —  she  saw  Adela  now 
as  seldom  as  possible.  She  told  John  on  the  morning  of  the 
day  itself  —  on  that  same  morning  she  told  Christopher. 

She  told  him  sitting  in  her  chair,  with  her  cheeks  painted 
and  her  white  fingers  covered  with  rings  — 

"  I'm  going  to  pay  a  visit  —  this  afternoon,  Christopher." 
She  had  expected  opposition  —  she  was  a  little  disappointed 
when  he  said  — 

"  Yes,  so  I've  already  heard  this  morning.  I  think  it's  an 
excellent  thing  —  the  day's  warm.  You'll  have  to  be  carried 
downstairs,  you  know " 

"  You  and  Norris  can  do  that.     I  won't  have  anyone  else," 

"  Very  well,  I  shall  have  to  come  with  you " 

"  Yes  —  You  can  talk  to  my  granddaughter." 

"  It's  thirty  years.  .  .  ." 

**  Yes  —  The  last  time  was  Old  Judy  Bonnings's  reception. 
They're  all  dead  —  all  of  'em  —  D'you  remember,  Dor- 
chester ? " 

"  Yes  —  Your  Grace  —  Very  welL" 


THE  DUCHESS  MOVES  353 

Dorchester  expressed  no  surprise  —  Anything  was  better 
than  that  silence  of  the  last  months.  Moreover  she  had 
trusted  Christopher.  She  had  often  been  amazed  at  the 
knowledge  that  he  stowed  of  her  mistress's  temperament, 
would  allow  her  temper,  her  imperious  self-will  indulgence 
one  day  and  on  another  would  control  them  absolutely.  He 
knew  what  he  was  doing.  .  .  . 

The  picture  that  she  presented,  however,  when  helped  down- 
stairs by  the  pontifical  !N'orris  and  Christopher  I  the  house, 
with  the  decorous  watchfulness  of  some  large,  solemn,  and 
immensely  authoritative  policeman,  surveying  her  descent, 
her  own  little  bird-like  face,  showing  nothing  but  a  fine  as- 
sumption of  her  splendid  appearance  before  the  public,  after 
thirty  years,  she  thus,  once  again,  was  saluted  by  Portland 
Place !  Black  furs  of  Lady  Adela's  surrounded,  enfolded  her, 
and  from  out  of  them  her  eyes  haughtily  but  triumphantly 
surveyed  a  crossing^sweeper,  two  small  children  with  their 
nurse,  a  messenger  boy,  and  Poller  the  coachman.  To  Poller 
this  must  have  been  the  dramatic  moment  of  a  somewhat  un- 
dramatic  career,  but  stout  and  imperial  upon  his  box  his  body 
was  held,  rigid,  motionless,  and  his  large  stupid  eyes  gazed 
in  front  of  him  at  the  trees  and  the  light  cloud-flecked  March 
sky,  and  moved  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left. 

She  was  placed  in  the  carriage  —  Christopher  got  in  beside 
her  and  they  moved  off.  He  was  interested  to  see  the  effect 
that  this  breaking  into  the  world  would  have  upon  her.  He 
felt  himself  a  little  in  the  position  of  showman  and  was  glad 
that  he  had  a  spring  afternoon  of  gleaming  sunshine  and  a 
suggestion  of  budding  trees  and  shrubs  in  the  Portland  Cres- 
cent garden  to  provide  for  her.  They  were  held  up  by  traffic 
as  they  crossed  the  Marylebone  Road ;  drays,  hansoms,  bicycles 
passed  —  there  was  a  stir  of  voices  and  wheels,  somewhere  in 
the  park  a  band  was  playing. 

He  looked  at  her  and  saw  that  she  paid  no  heed,  but  sat 
back  in  the  dim  shadow,  her  eyes,  he  thought,  closed.  She 
was,  at  that  instant,  more  remote  from  him  and  all  that  he 


364  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

represented  than  she  had  ever  been  —  Curiously  he  was 
moved,  just  then,  by  a  consciousness  of  her  personality  that 
exceeded  anything  that  he  had  ever  felt  in  her  before. 

"  Yes,  she  must  have  been  tremendous,"  he  thought.  And 
then  he  vt'ondered  of  what  she  was  thinking,  so  quiet,  and 
yet,  from  her  very  silence,  sinister,  and  then  —  how  could  he 
have  not  considered  this  before  ?  What  was  she  going  to  say 
to  Eoddy  ? 

At  this,  the  dark  carriage  was  suddenly,  for  him,  as  flash- 
ing with  life  and  circumstance  as  though  it  had  been  the 
florid  circle  of  some  popular  music-hall  —  What  would  she 
say  to  Roddy  ? 

He  knew  her  for  the  most  selfish  of  all  possible  old  women: 
unselfish  only  perhaps  if  Eoddy  were  concerned,  but  there 
also,  if  some  question  of  her  power  moved  her,  ruthless.  He 
had  traced  the  windings  of  her  queer  intertwisted  brain  with 
some  accuracy  —  He  knew  also  that  the  coloured  unreal  state 
that  her  closed,  fantastic  life  (resembling,  you  might  say, 
life  inside  a  Chinese  puzzle)  had  brought  upon  her  led  her 
now  to  see  Eachel  as  arch-antagonist  in  every  step  and  move- 
ment of  her  day. 

She  would  not  wish  to  make  Eoddy  unhappy,  she  might 
persuade  herself  that  to  hint  to  him  of  Eachel's  infidelity 
would  be  to  put  him  on  his  guard  —  she  might  say  that  it  was 
not  fair  that  Eachel  should  not  be  pulled  up.  .  .  . 

Christopher  himself  could  not  tell  how  far  this  affair  with 
Breton  had  gone.  .  .  . 

During  that  short  time  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  crisis,  that 
had  been  building  up  around  him,  here,  there,  for  months, 
for  years  perhaps,  had  leapt  upon  him  and  that  in  some  way 
he  must  deal  with  it. 

Even  whilst  he  struggled  with  the  thoughts  that  were 
sweeping  upon  him  now  from  every  side,  they  were  at  the 
house  —  As  he  stepped  out  of  the  carriage  he  felt  that  he  was 
before  a  locked  door,  that  the  safety  of  many  persons  de- 
pended upon  his  opening  it,  that  he  could  not  find  the  key. 


THE  DUCHESS  MOVES  355 

"  Lady  Seddon  was  out.     Sir  Roderick  was  alone 


The  Duchess  was  half  assisted,  half  carried  into  the  house. 


m 


The  Duchess's  feelings  were  indeed  confused  as  she  was 
helped  into  Roddy's  room,  placed  in  a  large  easy  chair  op- 
posite to  him  and  at  last  left  alone  with  him. 

Enough  of  itself  to  disturb  her  was  the  fact  that  now  for 
the  first  time  for  thirty  years  she  was  able  to  examine  some 
room  different  from  her  own  —  A  large,  high  white-walled 
room  with  wide  windows  that  displayed  the  park,  sporting 
prints  on  the  walls,  antlers  over  the  fireplace,  a  piano  in  one 
corner,  a  large  bowl  of  primroses  on  the  piano,  some  boxing- 
gloves  and  two  old  swords  over  the  door,  a  wooden  case  with 
thin  rosewood  drawers  and  "  Birds'  Eggs  "  in  gold  letters 
upon  it,  a  round  table  near  the  sofa  upon  which  Roddy  was 
lying  and  on  the  table  a  photograph  of  Rachel  — 

All  these  things  her  sharp  old  eyes  noticed  before  she  al' 
lowed  them  to  settle  upon  Roddy  — 

His  quiet,  almost  humorous  "  Well,  Duchess,"  set,  quite 
concisely,  the  note  for  this  conversation.  "Not  for  either  of 
them  was  it  to  betray  any  consciousness  that  this  meeting  of 
theirs  was  in  any  way  out  of  the  ordinary.  Formerly  it  had 
been  the  ebullient,  vigorous  Roddy  who  had  brought  his  vigour 
to  renew  her  fierce  old  age ;  now  that  old  age  must  be  brought 
to  him  — 

The  Beaminsters  did  not  show  surprise  at  anything  at  all ; 
had  she  come  from  her  grave  to  visit  him  he  would  have 
greeted  her  with  his  quiet  "  Well,  Duchess  " —  his  life  was 
broken  in  pieces,  but  she  was  not  to  offer  any  comment  on 
that  either. 

She  was  exhausted  even  by  that  little  drive,  and  that  little 
passage  from  door  to  door,  so  she  just  lay  back  in  her  chair 
for  a  little  while  and  looked  at  him. 

His  body  was  covered  with  a  rug;  his  hands,  still  brown 
and  large  and  clumsy,  were  folded  on  his  lap ;  he  was  wonder- 


856  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

fully  tidy,  brushed  and  cleaned,  it  seemed  to  her,  as  thougS 
he  were  always  expecting  a  doctor  or  a  visitor  or  were  per- 
formed upon  by  some  valet  or  other,  simply,  poor  dear,  that 
the  time  might  be  filled.  His  cheeks  were  paler  of  course  and 
his  face  thinner,  but  it  was  in  his  eyes  —  his  large,  simple, 
singularly  imgrown-up  eyes  she  had  always  considered  them 
—  that  the  great  change  lay  — 

They  smiled  across  at  her  with  the  same  genial  good  tem- 
per that  they  had  always  presented  to  her.  But  indeed  she 
could  never  call  them  "  ungrown-up  "  again.  Roddy  Seddon 
had  grown  up  indeed  since  she  had  seen  him  last ;  she  knew 
now,  as  she  faced  the  experience  and,  above  all,  the  strength 
that  those  eyes  now  presented  for  her,  that  she  had  a  new 
spirit  to  encounter. 

Yes  —  he  "  had  had  a  horrible  time,"  but  she  was  wise 
enough,  at  that  instant,  to  realize  that  the  "  horrible  time  " 
had  drawn  character  out  of  him  that  she,  at  least,  had  never, 
for  an  instant,  suspected. 

The  old  woman  was  moved  so  that  she  would  have  liked  to 
have  tottered  to  his  sofa,  to  have  caught  his  hands  in  her  old 
dry  ones,  to  have  kissed  him,  to  have  smoothed  his  hair  —  but 
she  sat  quietly  in  her  chair,  recovered  her  breath  and,  grimly, 
almost  satuminely,  smiled  at  him. 

"  Well,  Roddy,"  she  said,  "  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  quite  splendid.  Play  patience  like  a  professor,  can. 
knit  five  mufflers  in  a  week  and  am  learning  two  foreign  lan- 
guages —  But  indeed  how  rippin'  to  see  you  here.  I've  spent 
a  lot  o'  time  on  this  old  sofa  wonderin'  how  you  and  I  wer© 
goin'  to  see  one  another." 

"  Have  you  ? "  She  was  pleased  at  that  — "  Well,  you  see, 
I  have  managed  it  and  quite  easily  too,  not  so  bad  after  thirty 
years.  My  good  Roddy,  you  of  all  people  to  tumble  off  a 
horse  I     What  were  you  about  ? " 

"  Oh !  it  was  simple  enough."  Roddy's  eyes  worked 
swiftly  to  the  park  and  then  back  again.  "  I  was  worried, 
you  see  —  my  thoughts  were  wandering,  and  the  old  mare 


THE  DUCHESS  MOVES  357 

just  tripped  into  a  hole,  pitched  and  flung  me  —  I  fell  on  a 
heap  o'  stones,  they  knocked  the  sense  out  of  me,  the  horse 
was  frightened  and  went  dashin?  along  with  me  tangled  up  in. 
her.  All  came  of  my  thoughts  wanderin' —  But  you  know, 
Duchess,  I've  had  heaps  of  accidents,  heaps  and  heaps,  every 
kind  of  thing  has  happened  to  me,  but  it's  never  been  serious 
—  always  the  most  wonderful  luck.  Well,  for  once  it  left 
me." 

"Poor  old  Eoddy." 

"  Yes,  it  was  '  poor  old  Eoddy,'  I  can  tell  you,  for  the  first 
six  weeks  —  thought  I  simply  couldn't  stand  it,  had  serious 
thoughts  of  kickin'  out  altogether,  seemed  to  me  everythin' 
had  gone  .  .  .  it's  wonderful,  though,  the  way  you  pick  up. 
And  then  everyone's  been  so  tremendous,  and  as  for  Rachel !  " 

He  heaved  a  great  sigh  —  Her  eyes  half  closed,  then  she 
looked  very  carefully  at  the  photograph  on  the  little  round 
table.     "  That's  a  good  photograph  of  her  you've  got" 

"  Yes  —  it's  my  favourite.  But  you.  Duchess,  tell  me 
about  yourself.  You  must  be  in  magnificent  form  to  have 
planned  this  great  adventure." 

She  told  him  about  herself  —  only  a  little,  all  very  care- 
fully chosen  —  She  was  fancying,  as  she  sat  there,  that  she 
was  again  playing  the  great  diplomatist  before  the  world. 

This  expedition  had  greatly  excited  her,  it  had  fired  her 
blood,  and  just  now  she  felt  that  she  was  equal  to  taking  up 
her  old  life  of  thirty  years  ago,  playing  once  more  a  tre- 
mendous part,  beating  Mrs.  Bronson  and  others  of  her  kind 
straight  off  the  field. 

She  had  a  great  plan  now  of  coming  often  to  see  Roddy 
and  of  gaining  a  very  great  influence  over  him ;  she  did  not 
Bay  to  herself  in  so  many  words  that  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  him  lying  there  helpless  and  therefore  completely  in 
Rachel's  power,  but  that  is  what  in  reality  stirred  her. 

Roddy's  helplessness  —  the  sight  and  sound  of  it  —  drove 
higher  that  flame  that  had  burnt  now  for  so  long  before  the 
altar  at  which  Rachel  was^  one  day,  to  be  sacrificed.     "  She 


358  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

may  come  and  go  as  she  pleases.  He  lies  here  —  He  can  do 
nothing.  He  can  know  nothing  of  her  movements  —  He's  in 
her  hands  —  after  what  I  know.  .  .  ." 

What  did  she  know?  The  acquaintanceship  of  Breton's 
manservant  and  Dorchester  had  produced  the  fact  of  Rachel's 
visit,  of  letters  —  hut  wasn't  that  all  ?  Amongst  the  strange 
mingled  visions  that  now  crossed  and  recrossed  her  hrain  it 
were  hard  to  say  what  were  real  and  what  phantasmal.  But 
granted  that  the  two  of  them  had  come  together  at  all,  why 
then  it  was  plain  enough  to  anyone  who  knew  them  that  only 
one  result  was  possible  —  Poor  Eoddy  .  .  .  her  poor  Roddy ! 

But  she  did  not  know  even  now  that  she  intended  to  tell 
him  anything;  her  sense  of  the  pain  that  that  revelation 
would  give  to  him  held  her,  but  as  the  minutes  passed  her 
delight  at  being  back  once  more  in  this  gay,  bustling  world 
(yes,  she  liked  its  new  invigorating  noises) ,  the  sense  of  power 
that  she  had,  and  youth,  and  strength,  spun  her  brain  to 
finest  cobwebs  of  entanglements. 

She  was  glad  to  be  with  her  Roddy  again,  it  was  only  fair 
that,  helpless  as  he  was,  there  should  still  be  someone  to 
guard  and  protect  him  ...  to  protect  him,  yes ! 

Her  eyes  flashed  at  the  photograph. 

But  for  a  long  time  they  talked  in  precisely  their  old 
fashion.  The  War,  friends  and  enemies,  victories  and  de- 
feats, marriages  and  deaths;  Roddy  seemed,  for  a  time,  the 
old  Roddy. 

And  then  gradually  through  it  all  there  pushed  towards  her 
the  consciousness  that  he  was  doing  it  now  to  please  her; 
more  than  that,  again  and  again  she  was  aware  that  some 
bitter  jest,  some  sharp  distraction,  some  fierce  criticism  had 
been  turned  by  him  deftly  aside  —  simply  rejected  with  a 
deftness  and  a  strength  that  the  old  Roddy  could  never  have 
summoned. 

Here  again  then  —  and  it  stabbed  her  there  in  the  midst 
of  her  new  pride  and  confidence  —  was  a  reminder  that  her 
power,  her  sovereignty  had  vanished !     Was  Roddy  also  to  be 


THE  DUCHESS  MOVES  359 

beyond  her  influence,  Roddy  whom  she  had  had  at  her  feet 
since  he  was  a  boy  of  sixteen  ? 

The  photograph  smiled  across  at  her  —  She  bent  forward, 
her  hand  raised  a  little  as  though  to  lend  emphasis  to  her 
words  — "  And  then  you  know,  Roddy,  I'm  still  troubled 
with  my  abominable  relation " 

"What!  Breton?  Why,  how's  he  been  behavin'?" 
Roddy's  voice  was  scornful. 

"  Oh !  he's  not  done  anything  that  I  know  of  —  But  he's 
always  there  —  so  tiresome  to  have  him  so  close,  and  John 
and  Adela  have  grown  so  peculiar  lately  that  there's  no  know- 
ing —  They  may  ask  him  in  to  tea  one  day " 

"  Oh  no,  they  won't,"  said  Roddy.  "  He  must  be  the  most 
awful  outsider." 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  about  him  to  you  because  I  thought 
you  might  give  a  word  of  warning  to  Rachel " 

"  To  Rachel  ?  "     Roddy's  voice  was  amazed. 

"  Yes  —  She's  become  such  a  friend  of  his !  Surely  you 
know?  That's  what  makes  it  so  difficult  for  me  —  When 
one's  own  granddaughter " 

"Rachel!  A  friend  of  Breton's!  But  I  didn't  know 
she'd  ever  spoken  to  him  —  Look  here.  Duchess,  you  must 
explain " 

"  I  thought  you  must  have  known.  I've  often  wished  to 
speak  to  you  about  it,  only  Rachel  is  so  difficult  and  I  didn't 
want  to  worry  you,  and  it  seems  especially  hard  just 
now ^" 

"  But  it  doesn't  worry  me  —  not  a  bit.  Only  tell  me  — ■ 
How  do  you  mean  that  she's  a  friend  of  his  ? " 

"  Only  that  she  goes  to  see  him,  writes  to  him " 

"  Goes  to  see  him " 

"  Oh  yes  —  is  in  complete  sympathy " 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Absolutely.     You  must  ask  her." 

**  I  will  of  course " 

He  lay  back  on  his  sofa.     Eor  a  little  time  there  was  si^ 


360  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

lence  between  them.  She  was  filled  now  with  wild  regrets. 
She  wished  that  she  had  said  nothing.  His  face  was  hard  and 
old  —  She  wished  .  .  .  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  wished ; 
she  only  knew  that  suddenly  she  was  tired  and  would  like  to 
go  home. 

A  bell  was  rung  and  Christopher  was  sent  for.  She  would 
like  to  have  kissed  Roddy,  but  only  wagged  her  bony  finger 
at  him  — 

"  Now  be  a  good  patient  boy  and  I'll  soon  come  again." 

IV 

Meanwhile,  five  minutes  before  this,  Rachel  had  come  in. 
She  was  told  of  the  visits,  ajid  going  swiftly  to  the  little 
drawing-room  upstairs  had  found  Chris-topher. 

She  flung  her  arms  around  him  and  kissed  him. 

"Oh,  dear  Dr.  Chris  I" 

But  he  stopped  her. 

"  Quick,  Rachel.  I  may  only  have  a  minute.  .  .  .  IVe 
got  to  speak  to  you." 

Instantly  she  drew  back,  her  grave  eyes  watching  him  and 
her  hands,  as  of  old,  nervously  moving  against  her  dress. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It's  just  this.  The  Duchess  may  ring  at  any  moment  — 
she's  been  with  him  a  long  while.  Look  here,  Rachel,  she 
knows  about  Breton  —  that  you've  been  to  see  him,  that 
you've  written  to  him ^" 

"She  told  you?" 

"  Yes  —  long  ago  —  But  never  mind  that  now,  although 
I'd  have  spoken  to  you  of  it  before  if  you'd  let  me  —  But  the 
only  thing  that  matters  is  that  I  believe  —  I  can't  of  course 
be  sure  —  but  I  believe  that  she's  come  now  to  tell  Roddy." 

Rachel  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Oh  I  "  she  said  and,  stiffly 
standing  there,  showed  in  her  eyes  the  pitch  of  feeling  to 
which  now  her  grandmother  had  brought  her. 

Christopher  went  on  urgently  — "  I've  been  praying  for 
you  to  come  in.     I  hoped  you'd  have  come  half  an  hour  ago. 


THE  DUCHESS  MOVES  3ftl 

There's  no  time  now,  but  —  it's  simply  this,  Kachel  dear  — • 
tell  Roddy  everything " 

She  broke  in  passionately.  "  You  know  it's  all  right,  Dr. 
Chris  —  you've  trusted  me  ?  " 

"  Absolutely,"  he  said  gravely.  "  But  it  simply  is  that 
Eoddy  mustn't  be  there  imagining  things,  waiting,  wonder- 
ing. .  .  ,  Perhaps  he  won't  ask  you  —  Perhaps  he  will  — 
But,  anyway,  tell  him  —  tell  him  at  once  everything.  .  .  ." 

The  bell  rang,  he  went  across  to  her,  kissed  her,  and  then 
went  downstairs. 

She  stood  there  waiting,  without  moving  except  to  strip 
off,  very  slowly,  her  black  gloves.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon, 
the  door. 

She  heard  the  door  downstairs  open,  the  stumbling  steps; 
once  she  caught  the  Duchess's  voice  and  at  that  she  drew  in 
her  breath.  Then  the  hall  door  closed,  but,  for  a  long  time 
"iif torwards,  she  stood  there  without  moving. 


CHAPTER  III 

RODDY  MOVES 

".  .  .  But  the  Red  Dwarf,  although  as  malevolent  as  possible,  found 
that  his  ill-temper  had  no  effect  against  true  love,  which  always  won 
in  the  end,   even  with   quite   stupid   people." 

Qri/mm's   Fairy   Tales. 


IT  would  have  been  quite  impossible  for  Roddy  to  have 
given  any  clear  description  of  his  experiences  since  the 
event  of  his  accident.  There,  surely,  like  a  gleaming  sword, 
that  cut  his  life  into  two  pieces,  the  fact  itself  was  visible 
enough,  and  there  floated  before  him,  again  and  again,  the 
casual  canter,  the  especial  view  that  was  before  him  just 
then,  a  view  of  undulating  Downs,  somewhere  to  his  left 
white  chalk  hollows  in  grey  hills  and  to  his  right  a  blue  strip 
of  sea,  the  wonder  that  was  in  his  mind  about  Rachel,  his 
thoughts  chasing  back  over  all  the  incidents  of  their  life 
together,  then  suddenly  the  jerk,  his  consciousness  of  falling 
with  the  ground  rising  in  a  high  wall  to  oppose  him,  and 
then  darkness. 

After  that  there  was  nightmare  in  which  pain  and  Rachel, 
Rachel  and  pain,  mingled  and  parted,  were  confused  and 
then  separate,  and  with  them  danced  shapes  and  figures, 
sometimes  in  a  turmoil  that  was  horrible,  sometimes  in 
silence  that  was  the  most  terrible  of  all.  Clear  after  that 
first  period  of  misty  confusion  was  the  day  when  he  was 
told  his  fate. 

He  had  come  out  from  the  heart  of  the  more  terrible  pain 

— 1^0  longer  had  he  to  lie,  knowing  that  soon,  after  another 

minute's  peace,  agony  would  rise  before  him  like  a  creature 

with  a  wet  pale  malignant  face,  and  then  after  looking  upon 

him  for  a  moment,  would  bend  down  and,  with  its  horrible 

362 


EODDY  MOVES  363 

damp  fingers,  would  twist  and  turn  his  bones  one  against 
another  until  the  supreme  moment  came  when  nothing  mat- 
tered and  no  agony,  however  bad,  could  touch  his  indifferent 
soul. 

He  was  now  simply  weak,  weak,  weak  —  nothing  mattered. 
In  his  dream  he  fancied  that  someone  had  said  that  he 
would  never  rise  from  his  back  again.  For  days  after  that  it 
lingered  far  away  from  his  actual  consciousness.  Really  it 
had  not  mattered ;  something,  this  dream,  that  concerned  him, 
but  what  could  concern  him  except  that  people  should  keep 
quiet  and  not  fuss  ? 

For  instance  he  loved  to  have  Rachel  with  him,  he  was 
miserable  were  she  not  there,  but  at  the  same  time  he  was 
conscious  that  she  did  fuss,  was  not  quite  like  Miss  Rand. 

But  of  this  thing  that  he  had  heard  he  thought  nothing. 
"  There's  something  that  I  ought  to  think  about.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  —  One  day  when  I'm  stronger  I'll  look  into 
it" 

There  came  a  day  when  he  was  stronger,  a  day,  late  in 
January,  of  a  pale  wintry  sun  and  watery  gleams.  They 
had  placed  his  bed  so  that  he  could  see  his  beloved  Downs  and 
the  little  road  that  ran  from  their  foot  out  into  the  village. 

On  this  morning  he  was  wonderfully  better  —  he  had  slept 
well,  breezes  and  pleasant  scents  came  through  the  open  win- 
dow, geese  were  cackling,  a  donkey's  braying  made  him  laugh 
— "  Silly  old  donkey,"  he  said  aloud  to  no  one  in  particular. 

Then  he  was  aware  of  Jacob,  sitting  bunched  into  a  heap 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  his  brown  eyes  peering  anxiously 
through  his  hair.  At  every  sound  his  ears  would  rise  for  a 
moment,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Roddy. 

The  dog  had  been  in  Roddy's  room  a  good  deal  during 
these  last  weeks,  had  been  wrenched  away  from  it.  Roddy 
found  that  he  was  touched  by  this  devotion;  Jacob  appar- 
ently cared  more  for  him  than  did  the  other  dogs  — "  l!^ot  a 
bad  old  thing  —  Often  these  mongrels  are  more  human  — 
But,  Lord !  he  ts  a  sight !  " 


364  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

The  nurse  was  sitting  sewing  by  the  window.  Roddy  lay. 
happily,  thinking  that  now  at  last  that  jolly  bad  pain  really 
did  seem  to  have  been  left  behind.  He  was  immensely, 
wonderfully  better;  it  would  not  be  long,  surely,  before  he 
was  quite  fit  again,  before  he  .  .  , 

Then  down  it  swung,  swung  like  an  iron  door  shutting  all 
the  world  away  from  him,  inexorable  — "  Always  on  your 
back  .  .  .  never  get  up  again !  " 

His  hand  gripped  the  bed-clothes. 

"  Nurse." 

"Yes?" 

"  Tell  me  —  am  I  dreaming  or  did  someone  say  something 
the  other  day  about  —  about  my  never  being  able,  well,  to 
toddle  again,  you  know  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid "  . 

"  Thanks." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  then  summoned  all  the  grit  and 
determination  that  there  was  in  him  to  face  this  fact.  He 
could  not  face  it.  It  was  as  though  he  were  struggling  up  the 
side  of  a  high  slippery  rock  —  up  he  would  struggle,  up  and 
up,  now  he  was  at  the  top,  down  he  would  slip  again  —  it 
could  not,  oh !  it  could  not  be  true ! 

It  was  true.  As  the  days  passed  grimly  in  silence,  he 
accepted  it.  It  had  always  been  his  creed  that  in  this  world 
there  was  no  place  for  the  maimed  and  the  halt.  He  was 
Borry  for  them,  of  course,  but  it  was  better  that  they  should 
go;  they  only  occupied  room  that  was  intended  for  lustier 
creatures. 

Well,  now  he  was  himself  of  the  halt  and  maimed  —  that 
was  ironical,  wasn't  it  ?  Indeed  he  would  much  rather  that 
he  had  pegged  out  altogether  —  better  for  everybody  —  but, 
as  things  were,  he  would  square  things  out  and  see  what 
he  could  make  of  it  all.  Then  he  saw  as,  every  day,  he 
grew  stronger,  that  he  had  no  resources;  everything  in  his 
other  life,  as  he  now  had  come  to  think  of  it,  had  depended 
upon  his  physical  strength,  every  pleasure,  every  desire,  every 


RODDY  MOVES  365 

ambition  had  had  to  do  with  his  body  —  everything  except 
Rachel. 

In  his  other  life  half  his  happiness  arose  simply  from  the 
sense  of  his  physical  movement,  his  consciousness  that,  as 
the  rivers  flowed  and  the  winds  blew  and  the  sun  blazed,  so 
did  he  also  live  and  have  his  being  —  And  with  all  this,  most 
intimately  was  his  house  mingled.  That  grey  building  and 
he  grew  and  moved  and  developed  together;  life  could  never 
be  very  terrible  for  him  so  long  as  he  had  his  place  to  come 
back  to,  his  place  to  care  for,  his  fields  and  his  gardens,  his 
horses  and  his  dogs  to  look  after.  Now  he  could  do  nothing 
more  for  it  —  perhaps  one  day  he  would  be  wheeled  about  its 
courts  and  paths,  but  oh!  with  what  pitying  eyes  would  it 
look  down  upon  him,  how  sorrowfully  his  gryphons  would 
greet  him,  with  what  memories  they  would  confront  him ! 

He  could  not  bear  now  to  look  out  upon  the  Downs  on  the 
little  village  path  —  His  bed  was  moved.  A  day  arrived 
when  he  felt  that  it  was  all,  really,  more  than  he  could  endure. 
He  was  in  wild,  furious  rebellion,  surly,  sometimes  in  raging 
tempers,  sometimes  sulking  from  day  to  day.  He  cursed  all 
the  world.     Even  Christopher  could  do  nothing  with  him  — 

Then  upon  this  there  followed  a  period  of  silence.  He  lay 
there  and  beyond  "  Yes  "  and  "  No  "  would  answer  no  one. 
His  eyes  stared  at  the  wall.  Christopher  feared  at  this  time 
.for  his  sanity. 

Suddenly  the  silence  was  broken.  He  must  go  to  London 
because  he  could  not  endure  the  memories  that  this  place 
thronged  upon  him  —  At  the  beginning  of  March  he  was 
moved  to  the  house  in  York  Terrace. 

n 

The  little  house  by  the  park  helped  him  to  construct  his 
new  life.  The  normality  that  there  was  in  Roddy,  the  same 
balance  of  common  sense,  fostered  his  recovery.  He  was  not 
going  to  die  —  Life  would  be  an  infernal  trouble  were  he 
always  to  be  in  rebellion  against  it  —  he  must  simply  make 


see  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

the  best  of  the  conditions.  And  then,  after  all,  he  had  Rachel. 
Rachel  had  been  a  heroine  during  this  time,  and  to  his  love 
for  her  he  now  clung,  passionately,  tenaciously,  the  one  thing 
left  to  him  out  of  his  great  catastrophe. 

She  seemed,  during  these  months,  to  have  thought  for 
nothing  else  in  all  the  world.  She  was  not  so  useful  in  a  sick 
room  as  Miss  Rand  —  Miss  Rand  was  wonderful  —  but  there 
were  certain  moments  when  she  would  bend  down  and  kiss 
him  or  would  look  at  him  or  would  take  his  hand,  when  he 
wondered  whether  love  for  him  had  not  crept  into  her  heart 
after  all. 

Funny  when  he  had  gone  out  for  his  ride  on  that  eventful 
morning  expecting  that  he  had  offended  her  for  ever !  Well, 
if  his  accident  had  won  Rachel  for  him,  it  had  been  worth 
while ! 

But  there  were  other  days  when  he  knew  for  a  certainty 
that  it  was  not  so,  knew  that  it  was  pity  that  moved  her; 
affection  too  perhaps,  but  nothing  more  than  affection.  .  .  . 

!N^evertheless  he  hoped  that  this  might  be  the  beginning 
of  something  else;  he  would  lie  for  hours  looking  out  at  the 
park  and  creating  visions. 

He  made  now  something  tolerable  of  his  life.  People 
showed  a  wonderful  kindness  and  there  was  always  someone  to 
entertain  him,  some  new  present  that  someone  had  sent  him ; 
people  could  not  be  kind  enough.  He  was  grateful  for  all  of 
this,  but  he  spent  many,  many  hours  in  thinking.  He  found 
that  he  had  never  thought  before;  he  found  that  he  would 
have  gone  to  his  grave  without  thinking  had  not  the  great 
catastrophe  occurred.  He  thought  of  a  great  many  things, 
but  especially  of  what  other  people's  lives  were  like.  There 
were,  he  supposed,  a  great  number  of  people  who  had  had 
misfortunes  as  overwhelming  at  his  —  How  had  they  be 
haved  ?  And  what,  after  all,  were  all  the  other  people,  in  all 
their  different  circumstances,  doing  ?  Before  this  it  had  onl^ 
occurred  to  him  to  be  interested  in  the  people  who  were  lead 
ing  lives  like  his,  now  he  wondered  about  everybody. 


RODDY  MOVES  367 

Little  things  became  of  the  greatest  importance.  Every 
day  he  read  the  paper  with  absorbed  care  from  the  first  line 
to  the  last.  The  arrangement  of  the  room  interested  him  and 
lie  would  give  its  details,  minutely,  his  consideration. 

He  was  greatly  interested  in  gossip  and  he  would  chatter, 
happily,  all  the  afternoon  did  someone  come  and  visit  him. 
To  everyone  it  was  an  amazing  thing  that  he  should  take  it 
all  so  easily.  No  one  had  ever  given  Roddy  credit  for  the 
strength  of  character  that  was  in  him  and  they  did  not  per- 
haps recognize  that  his  earlier  impatient  condemnation  of 
other  people  — "  Why  the  devil  don't  the  feller  stand  up  to 
it  like  a  man  ?  " —  made  him  now  conscious  that  he  was  him- 
self at  last  faced  with  a  similar  test  to  which  he  himself  must 
stand  up. 

But,  beyond  question,  he  could  not  have  held  the  position 
as  he  did  had  it  not  been  for  Rachel ;  he  seemed  to  see  that 
here  was  a  chance  of  seizing  her  and  making  her  really  his 
own,  a  chance  that  would  never  be  his  again.  He  was  making 
an  appeal  to  her  —  she  was  closer  to  him,  he  thought,  witli 
every  day. 

So  his  natural  humour  and  spirits  returned  —  At  present 
life  was  tolerable;  he  suffered  very  little  pain  and  he  was 
aware  that  a  number  of  people  to  whom  he  had  never  meant 
anything  whatever  now  cared  for  him  very  much  indeed. 

He  was  ashamed  when  he  heard  of  the  men  who  were 
dying  and  suffering  for  their  country — "  He  would  have  had 
to  have  gone  to  Africa,"  he  told  himself,  "  if  he'd  not  had  his 
accident  Then  enteric  or  a  bullet  and  good-bye  to  Rachel 
altogether ! " 

in 

He  had  often,  during  those  long  hours,  thought  of  the 
Duchess.  He  had,  always,  in  his  heart,  considered  her 
affection  for  him  strange;  he  knew  that  it  was  difficult  for 
her  to  be  patient  with  fools  and  he  knew  that  his  own  in- 
tellectual gifts  were  on  no  very  high  level.     He  based  her 


368  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

friendship  for  him  on  the  naive  transparency  with  which, 
he  displayed  his  frankly  pagan  indulgences.  His  love  for 
Eachel  and  this  accident  had  changed  all  that.  He  was 
still  pagan  enough  at  heart,  but  there  were  other  things 
in  his  world.  Principally  it  occurred  to  him  now  that  one 
couldn't  judge  about  the  way  things  looked  to  other  people, 
and  the  Duchess,  of  course,  always  did  judge ;  if  they  didn't 
look  her  way,  why  then  wipe  them  out ! 

He  had,  in  fact,  much  less  now  to  say  to  the  Duchess ;  he 
was  afraid  that  he  would  no  longer  agree  with  her  about 
things  — "  Of  course  she  knows  the  world  and  is  a  damn 
clever  woman,  but  she's  jolly  well  too  hard  on  people  who 
aren't  quite  her  style  —  She'd  put  my  back  up,  I  believe,  if 
she  talked."  He  had,  indeed,  always  been  uncomfortable 
at  the  old  lady's  approaches  to  sentiment.  She  was  never 
sentimental  with  other  people  —  He  hated  sentiment  in  any- 
one except,  of  course,  Rachel  and  she  never  was  sentimental. 

He  looked  out  now  upon  the  road  that  ran  through  the 
park  beyond  his  window,  watched  the  nursemaids  and  the 
children,  the  old  gentlemen,  the  girls,  the  smart  women  and 
the  pale  young  men  with  books  and  the  smart  young  men 
with  shiny  hats,  and  he  wondered  about  them  all. 

Sometimes  when  the  grass  was  very  green,  when  high  white 
clouds  piled  one  upon  another  hung  above  the  pond  whose 
corner  he  could  just  see,  thoughts  of  his  little  grey  house,  his 
gardens,  the  Downs,  his  horses  and  dogs  would  come  to  him  — 

"  Come  out !  Come  out !  "  a  sparrow  would  dance  on  his 
window  ledge  — 

"  Damn  you,  I  can't  I  "  he  would  cry  and  then  his  eyes 
would  fly  to  Rachel's  photograph  — "  If  I  get  her  it  will  be 
worth  it,  won't  it,  Jacob,  my  son  ?  " 

He  talked  continually  to  Jacob  and  found  great  comfort 
in  the  stolid  assurance  with  which  the  dog  would  wag  his 
stump  o.f  a  tail  — "  He's  more  than  human,  that  dog,"  he 
would  tell  Rachel ;  "  funny  how  I  never  used  to  see  anything 
in  him." 


KODDY  MOVES  369 

Of  course  there  were  many  days  when  life  was  utterly  im- 
possible; then  he  would  snap  at  everyone,  lie  scowling  at 
the  park,  curse  his  impotence,  his  miserable  degraded  in- 
firmities. "  Curse  it,  to  die  in  a  ditch  like  this  —  to  be 
broken  up,  to  be  smashed.  .  .  ." 

His  majestic  butler  —  now  the  tenderest  and  most  devoted 
of  attendants  —  stood  these  evil  days  with  great  equanimity. 

"  Bless  you,  of  course  he's  bound  to  be  wild  now  and  again 
—  wonder  is  it  don't  happen  more  often  —  It  does  him  good 
to  curse  a  bit" 

So  things  were  with  him  until  the  day  of  the  Duchess's 
visit.  His  surprise  at  seeing  her  was  confused  with  an 
assurance  that  "  she  had  come  for  something."  After  her 
departure  what  she  had  come  for  was  plain  enough  to  see. 

He  had  not  taken  her  words  about  Breton  at  first  with  any 
credulity.  His  principal  emotion  at  the  time  had  been  anger 
with  the  old  woman,  a  great  desire  that  she  should  go  before 
he  should  forget  himself  and  be  disgraced  by  showing  temper 
to  anyone  so  old  and  feeble  —  But  when  she  had  gone,  he 
found  that  peace  had  left  him  now  once  and  for  all. 

He  knew  that  the  Duchess  hated  Rachel  and  he  was  ready 
to  allow  for  the  bias  and  exaggeration  that  spite  would  lend, 
but,  when  that  was  taken  away,  much  remained. 

Rachel  knew  Breton,  that  was  certain ;  she  had  never  told 
him.  Breton's  name  had  occurred  sometimes  in  conversa- 
tion and  she  had  always  spoken  of  him  as  though  he  were  a 
complete  stranger.  Rachel  knew  Breton  and  she  had  never 
told  him.  .  .  . 

He  might  tell  himself  that  she  had  not  told  him  because  she 
knew  that  he  would  instantly  stop  the  acquaintance  —  It  was, 
of  course,  simply  a  friendship  that  had  sprung  up  because 
Rachel  was  sorry  for  his  ostracism.  Roddy  thought  that 
that  was  just  like  Rachel,  part  of  her  warm-hearted  interest 
in  anyone  who  seemed  to  be  unfairly  treated  —  yet  —  she  had 
never  told  him. 

Then,  lying  there  all  alone  with  no  one  in  whom  he  could 


370  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

confide,  there  sprang  before  him  suspicions.  If  she  had 
known  this  scoundrel  of  a  cousin  of  hers,  if  she  had  been  so 
careful  to  keep  from  her  husband  all  cognizance  of  her  friend- 
ship, did  not  that  very  silence  and  deceit  imply  more  than 
friendship  ?  Was  Breton  the  kind  of  man  to  abstain  from 
snatching  every  advantage  that  was  open  to  him  ?  Did  not 
this  explain  Rachel's  avoidance  of  Roddy  during  the  last 
year,  her  moods  of  restraint,  repentance,  her  sudden  silences  ? 

Then  upon  this  came  the  thought,  how  much  of  all  this  did 
the  world  know  ?  Perhaps  it  was  true  once  again  that  the 
husband  was  the  last  to  be  informed,  perhaps  during  the  last 
year  all  London  Society  had  mocked  at  Roddy's  blindness. 

The  Duchess,  he  might  be  sure,  had  not  spared  her  tongue 
—  The  Duchess  ...  he  cursed  her  as  he  lay  there  and  then 
wondered  whether  he  should  not  rather  thank  her  for  opening 
his  eyes,  then  cursed  himself  for  daring  to  allow  such  sus- 
picions of  Rachel  to  gain  their  hold  upon  him. 

In  Roddy  there  was,  strong  beyond  almost  any  other 
principle,  a  sturdy  hereditary  pride.  He  was  proud  of  his 
stock,  proud  of  his  ancestors  and  all  their  doings,  worthy  and 
unworthy,  proud  of  his  own  pluck  and  standing  — "  Different 
from  all  these  half-baked  fellers  with  only  their  own  grand- 
mothers to  go  back  to."  It  had  been  this  arrogance,  with 
other  things  somewhat  closely  allied,  that  had  endeared  him 
to  the  Duchess.  Now  it  was  that  same  pride  that  suffered 
most  terribly.  Here  was  some  disaster  hanging  over  his  head 
that  threatened  most  nearly  the  honour  of  his  family  —  Let 
Breton  touch  that.  .  .  . 

He  was  alone  on  that  evening  after  the  Duchess's  visit; 
Rachel  had  gone  out  to  a  party;  she  went,  he  had  noticed, 
reluctantly,  protested  again  and  again  that  she  wished  she 
could  stay  with  him,  seemed  to  hang  about  him  as  though 
she  would  speak  to  him,  looked,  oh !  too  adorably,  too  adorably 
beautiful ! 

Whilst  she  was  with  him  he  saw  behind  her  the  dark  shadow 
of  Breton,  that  fellow  kicked  out  of  the  country  for  cheating 


RODDY  MOVES  371 

at  cards  or  something  as  bad,  disowned  by  his  family,  and 
she,  she,  Rachel  so  proudly  apart,  could  have  gone  to  him  — 
He  was  glad  when,  at  last,  she  had  left  him. 

Then,  lying  there,  he  endured  three  of  the  most  awful  hours 
of  agony  that  he  was  ever,  in  all  his  life,  to  know.  Nothing 
that  had  come  to  him  through  his  accident  was  so  bad  as  this. 
At  one  moment  it  was  fury  —  wild,  raging,  unreasoning  fury 
—  that  wished  that  Rachel  and  Breton  and  the  Duchess,  all 
of  them  together  might  suffer  the  torments  of  hell  —  And 
then  swiftly  following  it  came  his  love  of  Rachel,  nearer  now 
to  burning  heights,  so  that  he  swore  that,  whatever  she  had 
done,  he  did  not  care,  he  would  forgive  her  everything,  but  all 
that  mattered  was  that  she  should  be  spared,  that  her  honour 
should  be  vindicated.  Then,  more  quietly,  he  reflected  that 
he  was  uncertain  of  everything  as  yet,  he  had  only  that 
malicious  old  woman's  word,  and  until  he  had  something 
more  solid  than  that  he  must  trust  Rachel. 

Oh !  if  only  she  would,  of  her  own  accord,  speak !  If  she 
would  only  sit  there  by  his  sofa  and,  with  her  hand  in  his, 
tell  him,  quite  simply,  in  what  exactly  her  friendship 
with  Breton  consisted  —  Ah!  then  how  he  would  forgive 
her !  How  together  they  would  be  revenged  upon  the  Duch- 
ess! 

If  she  did  not  speak  he  did  not  know  what  he  would  do. 
That  old  woman's  mouth  must  be  stopped ;  he  must  find  out 
exactly  how  far  the  danger  had  spread  —  he  must  deal  with 
Breton  —  ^TsTow  indeed  he  cursed  so  that  he  should  be  tied  to 
this  sofa;  there  had  swept  down  upon  him  the  hardest  trial 
of  his  life. 

Rachel  returned  from  her  party  —  she  sat  by  his  sofa  and 
he  lay  there  looking  at  her. 

Had  it  been  a  nice  party  ?  Not  very  —  One  of  those  war 
parties  that  everyone  had  now.  That  silly  Lady  Meikleham 
recited  "  The  Absent-minded  Beggar,"  and  they  had  that 
Trench  tenor  from  Covent  Garden  to  sing  patriotic  songs,  and 
of  course  they  got  money  out  of  everybody. 


372  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

There'd  been  nothing  for  supper  —  She'd  seen  nobody 
amusing  — 

She  broke  out :  "  Koddy  dear,  what  have  you  been  doing 
•with  yourself  ?  You  look  as  ■white  and  tired  as  anything  — 
Has  that  pain  in  your  back ? " 

"No,  dear, —  thank  you," 

**  I  wish  I  hadn't  gone,  and  the  dinner  at  Lady  Massiter's 
was  so  stupid  —  Monty  Carfax  whom  I  loathe  and  Lord  Maa- 
Biter  so  dull  and  stupid  —  says  he's  coming  to  see  you  to- 
morrow afternoon." 

"  Well,  he  can,  I'm  at  anybody's  mercy !  " 

She  got  up,  stood  over  him  for  a  moment  looking  so  tall 
and  slender,  so  dark  witti  diamonds  in  her  black  hair,  so 
lovely  to-night ! 

She  looked  down  upon  him,  then  suddenly  bent  and  kissed 
him. 

"Roddy " 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ? "  He  caught  her  hand  so  fiercely  that 
she  cried: 

"Eoddy  dear,  1 " 

«  Yes." 

"  Oh,  nothing,  only  you  look  so  tired,  I  wish  /  could  take 
some  of  the  pain " 

"  There  isn't  any,  dear,  I'm  wonderfully  lucky." 

Peters  came  ih.  to  take  him  to  bed. 

She  kissed  him  again  and  left  him. 

"  Looking  done  up  to-night,  sir,"  said  Peteus. 

"  I  am,"  said  Eoddy. 


CHAPTER  rv: 

MARCH  13th:     BRETON'S  TIGER 

**  If  I'd  had  the  power  not  to  be  bom,  I  would  certainly  not  hav^ 
accepted  existence  upon  conditions  that  are  such  a  mockery.  But  I 
still  have  power  to  die,  though  the  days  I  give  back  are  numberei 
It's  no  great  power,  it's  no  great  mutiny." — ^Dostoeivsky. 


CHRISTOPHER'S  knowledge  of  Rachel,  long  and  inti- 
mate  though  it  had  been,  had  never  made  him  sure  of 
her.  In  his  relations  with  his  fellow-men  he  proceeded  on 
the  broad  lines  that  best  suited,  he  felt,  any  investigation  of 
his  own  character.  Broad  lines,  however,  did  not  catch  that 
subtle  spirit  that  was  Rachel ;  he  had  been  baffled  again  and 
again  by  some  fierceness  or  sudden  wildness  in  her,  and  had 
often  been  held  from  approaching  her  lest  by  something  too 
impetuous  or  ill-considered  he  should  drive  her  from  him  alto- 
gether. He  had  been  aware  that,  since  her  marriage,  she  had 
been  gradually  slipping  from  him,  and  this  had  made  him, 
during  the  last  year,  the  more  careful  how  he  approached  her. 
He  loved  her  the  more  in  that  something  that  was  part  of 
her  was  strange  and  mysterious  to  him;  the  idealist  and  the 
poet  concealed  in  him  behind  his  frank  worldliness  cherished 
her  aloofness.  She  was  precious  to  him  because  nothing  else 
in  this  life  had  quite  her  unexpected  beauty. 

Since  that  afternoon  when  the  Duchess  had  paid  her  visit  to 
Roddy  he  wished  many  times  that  he  were  a  cleverer  man. 
He  felt  that  something  must  instantly  be  done,  but  he  felt,  too, 
that  one  false  step  on  his  part  would  plunge  them  all  into  the 
most  tragical  catastrophe. 

He  was  baffled  by  his  own  ignorance  as  to  the  real  truth ; 
neither  Breton  nor  Rachel  had  taken  him  into  their  confi- 
dence.    He  could  not  say  how  any  of  them  could  be  expected 

373 


3Y4  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

to  act,  and  yet  he  knew  that  something  must  be  done  at  once. 
He  saw  Kachel  through  it  all,  like  a  strange  dark  flower, 
mysterious,  shining,  with  her  colour,  beyond  his  grasp,  but  so 
beautiful,  so  poignant!  She  had  never  appealed  to  him  as 
now,  in  the  heart  of  some  danger  that  he  could  not  define  she 
eluded  him  and  yet  demanded  his  help. 

After  much  puzzled  thinking  he  decided  that  it  must  be 
Breton  whom  he  had  best  approach,  and  so  he  wrote  and 
asked  him  to  come  and  dine  quietly  with  him  in  Harley 
Street  on  the  evening  of  March  13th.  Breton  accepted  if  he 
might  be  released  at  nine-thirty,  as  he  had  then  another 
appointment. 

"  Can't  stand  a  whole  evening,"  thought  Christopher, 
"  thinks  I  want  to  bully  him.     Well,  perhaps  I  do !  " 

He  was  detained  to  a  late  hour  on  that  afternoon  by  a 
patient  in  Halkin  Street  and  it  was  after  seven  when  he 
started  home,  driving  through  Piccadilly  and  Bond  Street. 

It  had  been  an  afternoon  of  intense  closeness,  and  now 
as  evening  came  down  upon  the  town  the  thick  curtain  of 
grey  that  had  been  hanging  all  day  overhead  seemed,  with  a 
clanking  and  jolting,  one  might  imagine,  so  heavy  and  brazen 
was  its  aspect,  to  fall  lower  above  the  dim  grey  streets.  The 
lights  were  out,  swinging  pale  and  distended  down  the  length 
of  Piccadilly,  and  already  the  carriages  were  pressing  in  a 
long  row  towards  the  restaurants ;  boys  were  crying  the  latest 
editions  with  the  war  news  and  upon  all  those  ears  their  cries 
now  fell  drearily,  monotonously,  for  so  long  had  the  town 
been  filled  with  details  of  escape,  folly,  death,  ignominy,  that 
it  was  tired  and  weary  of  any  voice  or  cry  that  concerned 
itself  with  War.  .  .  . 

Christopher,  waiting  impatiently  for  his  carriage  to  move 
on,  thought  of  Brun ;  this  oppressive,  stifling  evening  seemed 
to  call,  in  some  manner  too  subtle  for  Christopher's  powers  of 
expression,  the  houses,  the  streets,  the  lamps,  the  very  railings 
into  some  life  of  their  own.  Under  the  iron  sky  that  surely 
with  every  minute  dropped  lower  upon  the  oppressed  town 


MAECH  13TH:  BRETON'S  TIGER  375 

the  clubs  opposite  the  Green  Park  raised  their  hooded  eyes 
and  stirred  ever  so  little  above  the  people,  and  the  twisted 
chimneys  vpatched  and  whispered,  as  the  trail  of  carriages 
wound,  drearily,  into  the  misty  distance.  Christopher  was 
not  an  imaginative  man,  but  he  thought  that  he  had  never 
known  London  so  evilly  perceptive. 

It  grew  hotter  and  hotter,  but  with  a  heat  that  made  the 
body  perspire  and  yet  left  it  cold.  A  dim  yellow  colour,  that 
seemed  to  herald  a  fog  that  had  not  made  up  its  mind  whether 
it  would  appear  or  no,  hung  at  street  comers.  Figures 
seemed  furtive  in  the  half-light  and,  instinctively,  voices  were 
lowered  as  though  some  sudden  sound  would  explode  the  air 
like  a  match  in  a  gas-filled  room.  A  bell  began  to  ring  and 
startled  everyone.  .  .  o 

"  There'll  be  an  awful  thunderstorm  soon,"  thought 
Christopher.  "  I've  never  known  things  so  heavy.  Every- 
one's nerves  will  be  on  the  stretch  to-night.  Why,  one  might 
fancy  anything."  His  own  brain  would  not  work.  He  had 
just  left  a  case  that  had  needed  all  his  sharpest  attention,  but 
he  had  found  that  it  was  only  with  the  utmost  difficulty 
that  he  could  keep  his  mind  alert,  and  now  when  he  wanted 
to  think  about  Breton  he  was  continually  arrested  by  some 
sense  of  apprehension,  so  that  he  had  to  stop  himself  from 
crying  out  to  his  driver,  "  Look  out  I  Take  care !  There's 
someone  there." 

When  he  got  to  his  house  he  found  that  his  forehead  was 
covered  with  perspiration  and  that  he  could  scarcely  breathe. 
Meanwhile  he  had  decided  nothing  as  to  the  course  he  would 
pursue  with  Breton.  When  he  had  dressed  and  come  down 
he  found  that  Breton  was  waiting  for  him. 

"  How  ill  he  looks !  "  was  Christopher's  first  thought.  Per- 
haps Breton  also  was  oppressed  by  the  weather  and  indeed 
in  the  house,  although  the  windows  were  open,  it  was  stifling 
enough. 

"  No,  the  man's  in  pieces."  Christopher's  look  was  sharp. 
He  had  never  seen  Breton,  who  was  naturally  neat  and  a 


376  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

little  vain  about  his  appearance,  so  dishevelled.  His  beard 
was  untrimmed,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  his  hair  unbrushed,  his 
face  white  and  drawn  and  his  mouth  seemed,  in  that  light, 
to  be  trembling. 

"  Good  heavens,  man,"  said  Christopher,  "  what  have  you 
been  doing  to  yourself  ?  " 

Breton  smiled  feebly  — "  Oh,  nothing.  Don't  badger  me 
—  I  can't  stand  it." 

"  Badger  you  ?     Who's  going  to  badger  you  ?  only " 

Christopher  broke  off,  looked  at  him  a  moment,  then  put 
his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  Look  here,  old  man,  why  have  you  left  me  alone  all  these 
weeks  ? " 

"  Haven't  felt  like  seeing  anybody." 

"  Well,  you  might  have  felt  like  seeing  me.  I've  missed 
you.  I  haven't  got  so  many  friends  that  I  can  spare,  so 
easily,  my  best  one." 

"  Oh,  rot,  Chris,"  Breton  said  almost  angrily.  "  You  know 
it's  only  the  kind  of  interest  you've  got  in  all  lame  dogs  that 
ties  you  to  me  at  all." 

"  You're  an  ungrateful  sort  of  fellow.  Prank.  But  no  mat- 
ter —  I'm  fond  of  you  in  spite  of  your  ingratitude.  Come  in 
to  dinner  and  see  whether  you  can  eat  anything  on  this 
stifling  night."  It  was  stifling,  but  oppressive  with  something 
more  than  the  mere  physical  discomfort  of  it.  It  was  a  night 
that  worked  havoc  with  the  nerves,  so  that  Christopher,  who 
had  naturally  a  vast  deal  of  common  sense,  found  himself 
glancing  round  his  shoulder,  irritated  at  the  least  noise  that 
his  servant  made,  expecting  always  to  hear  a  knock  on  the 
door. 

Breton  contributed  very  little  to  the  conversation  during 
dinner.  He  ate  almost  nothing,  drank  only  water,  looked 
about  him  restlessly,  muttered  something  about  its  being 
strangely  close  for  March,  crumbled  up  his  bread  into  little 
heaps. 

When   they   were   back   in    Christopher's    smoking-room 


MAKCH  13TH:  BRETON'S  TIGER  377 

Breton  collapsed  into  a  deep  chair,  lay  there,  staring  des- 
perately about  him,  then,  with  a  jerk,  pulled  himself  up  and 
began  to  stride  the  room,  swinging  his  arm,  then  pulling  at 
his  beard,  crying  out  at  last,  "  My  God !  it's  stifling.  Chria- 
topher  —  I  must  go  out.  I  can't  stand  this.  It's  beyond  my 
bearing." 

Christopher  made  him  sit  down  again  and  then,  feeling  that 
he  could  not  more  surely  hold  the  man  than  by  plunging  at 
once  into  what  was,  in  all  probability,  the  heart  of  his  trouble, 
said: 

"  Look  here,  Frank,  I  said  I  wouldn't  badger  you  and  I 
won't,  but  there's  something  about  which  I  must  speak  to 
you.  You  must  tell  me  the  truth.  There's  more  involved 
than  just  ourselves." 

Breton  seemed  instantly  aware  of  Christopher's  meaning. 
He  sat  up.  "  I  knew,"  he  said,  "  that  I  was  in  for  a  lecture. 
Well,  it  can't  make  any  difference." 

"  N^o,"  Christopher  answered  brusquely.  "  Whether  it 
makes  any  difference  to  you  or  no  you've  got  to  listen,  Frank. 
It's  simply  this.  I  happened  to  hear,  a  good  time  ago,  that 
you  had  met  Rachel.  I  knew  that  she  had  been  to  your  rooms. 
I  knew  that  you  had  corresponded.  I  should  dismiss  that 
manservant  of  yours,  Frank." 

Breton  muttered  something. 

"  You  might  have  told  me  yourself,  Frank.  You  might, 
both  of  you,  have  told  me.  But  never  mind  —  it's  all  too  late 
for  that  now.  The  point  is  that  it  was  your  grandmother 
that  told  me." 

"  My  God !  "  Breton  cried.  "  She  knows  ?  She  knew. 
.  .  .  But  there  was  nothing  to  know.  There  was  nothing 
anyone  mightn't  have  known.  If  anyone  dares  to  breathe  a 
syllable  against  one  of  the  purest,  noblest  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  know  aU  that,"  Christopher  answered. 
*'  But  the  thing  is  simply  this.  I  don't  know  —  she  doesn't 
know  exactly  what  the  truth  is  between  you  and  Rachel.  All 
that  she  does  know  is  that  Rachel  went  to  see  you  and  wrote 


878  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

to  you.  Now  Roddy  Seddon  isn't  —  or  wasn't  aware  that 
his  wife  had  ever  met  you.  He  holds  the  more  or  less  tra- 
ditional family  point  of  view  about  you.  I  believe  that,  two 
or  three  days  ago,  the  Duchess  told  him  about  Rachel's  visits. 
I  am  not  sure  of  this.  I  hope  that  by  now  Rachel  herself 
has  told  her  husband.  But  of  that  also  I'm  not  sure.  All  I 
know  is  that  it's  our  duty  —  your  duty  and  my  duty  to  save 
Rachel  all  the  unhappiness  we  can,  and  still  more  to  save 
Roddy.     Remember  the  position  he's  in." 

Breton  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Look  here,  Chris,  I  should 
have  told  you  of  all  this  long  ago.  I  didn't  know  that  you 
had  heard.  I  wish  to  God  I  had  spoken  to  you.  But  as 
Heaven  is  my  witness,  Rachel  is  a  saint.  I'm  a  miserable 
cur  —  a  misery  to  myself  and  a  misery  to  everyone  elsa 
But  she " 

"  You've  been  fools,  the  couple  of  you,"  he  answered 
sternly.  "  It's  no  use  cursing  now.  I  won't  go  and  urge 
Rachel  to  tell  Roddy  —  she  must  do  that  of  her  own  free  will 
—  All  our  hands  are  tied.  It  depends  upon  the  steps  that 
Roddy  takes,  and  after  all  the  old  lady  may  never  have  told 
him.  But  I've  warned  you,  Erank.  It's  up  to  you  to  do  the 
right  thing." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  asked  Breton. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  can  do.  You  must  see  for  your- 
self —  only,  Erank,"  here  Christopher's  voice  became  softer, 
"  by  all  our  old  friendship  and  by  any  affection  that  you  may 
have  left  for  me,  I  do  conjure  you  to  play  fair  by  Rachel  and 
her  husband.  Rachel  is  very,  very  young.  Roddy  is  help- 
less   " 

"  That's  enough,"  Breton  cried.  "  My  God,  Christopher, 
if  you  could  realize  the  weeks  I've  been  having  you  wouldn't 
think,  perhaps,  so  badly  of  me.  It's  been  more,  I  swear,  than 
any  mortal  flesh  can  endure.  I'm  driven,  driven  —  I'm  at 
the  end.  .  .  .  But  she's  safe  from  me,  safe  now  and  safe  for 
ever.     And  that  now  that  old  woman  should  step  in  —  now." 

Christopher  came  and  again  put  his  arm  on  Breton's 


MAECH  13TH:  BEETON'S  TIGER  379 

shoulder  and  held  him  up,  it  might  seem,  with  more  than 
physical  strength. 

His  affection  for  Breton  was  an  affection  sprung  from 
his  very  knowledge  of  the  man's  weaknesses.  He  had  in  him 
that  British  quality  of  ruthless  condemnation  for  the  sinner 
whom  he  did  not  know  and  sentimental  weakness  for  the  sin- 
ner whom  he  did.  He  had  seen  Francis  Breton  through  a 
thousand  scrapes,  he  would  see  him,  doubtless,  through  a 
thousand  more. 

"  We'll  say  no  more  now,  old  boy  —  You  look  done  up  —  I 
won't  worry  you,  but  if  you  want  me  here  I  am  and  I  promise 
not  to  lecture.  Only  you  owe  me  some  confidence,  you  do 
indeed." 

Breton  got  up  and  stood  there,  with  his  hand  pressed  to 
his  forehead.  "  What  you've  told  me,"  he  said.  "  I  must 
do  something  .  .  .  something  .  .  .  it's  all  been  my  fault. 
If  they  should  touch  her " 

Then,  turning  to  Christopher,  he  said :  "  You  are  the  only 
friend  I've  got,  and  I  know  it.  I  do  value  it  —  only  lately 
I've  been  going  to  bits  again.  If  it  weren't  for  you  and  little 
Miss  Band  I  swear  I'd  have  gone  altogether.  You  are  a 
brick,  Christopher.  Another  day  I'll  come  to  you  and  tell 
you  everything.     To-night  I'm  simply  past  talking." 

A  servant  came  in  and  gave  Christopher  a  note.  It  was 
from  Lord  John  saying  that  he  was  anxious  about  his  mother 
and  asking  the  doctor  whether  he  could  possibly  come  round 
and  see  her. 

Breton  then  said  that  he  must  go.  He  went,  promising 
that  he  would  soon  come  again.  When  he  had  left  the  house 
Christopher  stood,  perplexed,  wondering  whether  he  should 
have  left  him  alone.  Then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  coat  and  set 
off  ior  104  Portland  Place. 

n 

Breton  had,  indeed,  no  destination.  He  had  been  fright- 
ened of  a  whole  evening  with  Christopher. 


380  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

lie  was  frightened  of  everything,  of  everybody  —  above 
all,  of  himself.  He  found  himself,  with  a  sense  of  surprise, 
as  though  he  were  the  helpless  actor  in  some  bad  dream, 
standing  in  Oxford  Circus.     Surely  it  was  a  dream. 

The  sky,  grey  and  lowering,  was  yet  tinged  with  a  smoky 
red.  He  had  an  overpowering  sense  of  the  minuteness  of 
humanity,  so  that  the  crowds  crossing  and  recrossing  the 
Circus  seemed  like  tiny  animals  crawling  over  the  surface  of 
a  pond  from  which  the  water  had  been  drained. 

His  old  fancy  of  the  waterways  came  back  to  him  and  now 
he  thought  that  Oxford  Circus,  often  a  maelstrom  of  tossing, 
whirling  humanity,  had  run  dry  and  lay  stagnant,  filled  with 
dying  life,  beneath  the  red-tinged  sky. 

Ever  lower  and  lower  that  sky  seemed  to  fall.  Theatres, 
restaurants  on  that  evening  were  almost  deserted.  People 
stood  about  in  groups,  saying  that  soon  the  thunder  .would 
be  upon  them,  wondering  at  this  weather  in  March,  watching, 
with  curious  eyes,  the  sky. 

Breton  was  near  madness  that  evening.  He  was  near 
madness  to  this  extent,  that  he  was  not  certain  of  reality. 
Were  those  lamp-posts  real?  What  was  the  meaning  of 
those  strange  high  buildings  in  whose  heart  there  burnt  so 
sinister  a  light?  He  watched  them  expecting  that  at  any 
moment  these  would  burst  into  flame  and  with  a  screaming 
rattling  flare  go  tossing  to  the  sky. 

Near  him  a  girl  said,  "  All  right  —  of  course  it  ain't  of  no 
moment  what  I  might  happen  to  pre-fere  —  Oh,  no !  " 

A  mild  young  man  answered  her :  "  Well,  if  yer  want  ter 
go  to  the  Oxford  why  not  say  so  ?  That's  what  I  say.  Why 
not  say  so  'stead  of  'angin'  about " 

"  Oh !  'angin'  about !  Say  that  again  and  off  I  go. 
'Angin'  about!     I'd  like  to  know " 

"  I  didn't  say  anythink  about  your  'angin'  about.  Yer 
catch  a  feller  up  so  quickly.  Bertha.  What  I  mean  to 
eay " 

"  Oh !  yer  and  yer  meanin's.     Don't  know  what  yer  do 


MAKCH  13TH:  BKETON'S  TIGER  381 

mean,  if  the  truth  were  known.     'Ere's  a  pleasant  way  of 
spendin'  an  evenin' " 

Breton  regarded  them  with  curiosity.  Were  they  real? 
Did  they  feel  the  strange  oppression  of  this  lowering  sky  as 
strongly  as  he  did  ?  Were  they  uncertain  as  to  whether  these 
buildings  were  alive  or  no?  Perhaps  they  could  tell  him 
whether  those  omnibuses  that  came  lumbering  so  heavily  up 
Regent  Street  were  safe  and  secure. 

Oddly  enough,  although  he  tried,  he  could  not  remember 
exactly  what  it  was  that  Christopher  had  told  him.  Some- 
thing, of  course,  to  do  with  his  grandmother.  Everything 
was  to  do  with  her.  .  .  .  She  was  the  one  who  was  driving 
him  to  destruction.  Always  she  was  stepping  forward,  send- 
ing him  down  when  he  was  climbing  up,  at  last,  to  safety ; 
always  it  was  she  who  stood  behind  him,  on  the  watch  lest 
some  happiness  or  success  should  come  his  way. 

He  felt  as  though  he  would  like  to  go  and  force  his  way 
into  104  Portland  Place  and  face  the  woman  and  tell  her 
what  she  had  done  to  him.  Yes,  that  would  be  a  fine  thing 
—  to  see  all  those  Beaminster  relations  gathering  round, 
protesting,  frightened. 

And  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  really  did  not  know 
the  way  to  Portland  Place.  Things  were  so  strange  to-night. 
He  knew  that  it  was  close  at  hand,  but  he  was  afraid  that  he 
would  never  find  it.  He  was  really  afraid  that  he  would 
never  find  it. 

Some  man  jostled  into  him,  apologized  and  moved  away. 
The  contact  cleared  his  brain,  asserted  the  reality  of  the 
buildings,  the  crowds,  the  cabs  and  carriages.  He  pulled 
himself  together  and  began  slowly  to  walk  down  Oxford 
Street  in  the  direction  of  Tottenham  Court  Road. 

He  remembered  very  clearly  and  distinctly  what  it  was 
that  Christopher  had  told  him.  Rachel  was  in  danger  be- 
cause her  husband  had  heard  of  her  friendship  with  him, 
Breton.  .  .  . 

It  would  not  have  been  Francis  Breton  if  he  had  not  taken 


882  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

this  piece  of  news  and  looked  at  it  in  its  most  sensational 
colours.  He  had,  through  all  these  last  weeks,  been  striving 
to  accustom  himself  to  the  agony  of  enduring  life  without 
her.  He  dimly  perceived  that  it  was  the  emptiness  of  life 
rather  than  any  actual  loss  of  any  particular  person  that 
was  so  terrible  to  him.  He  had  still,  very  fine  and  beautiful, 
his  memory  of  the  day  when  she  had  come  to  him  in  his 
rooms,  and  had  that  day  been  followed  by  a  secret  relation- 
ship between  them  and  many  hours  spent  together,  then  his 
passion  would  have  been  very  genuine  and  moving. 

But,  after  all,  she  had  flashed  into  his  life,  and  then  flashed 
out  of  it  again,  and,  so  swiftly  with  him  did  moods  follow 
one  upon  another,  and  ideals  and  ambitions  and  despairs  and 
glories  jostle  together  in  his  brain,  that  she  might  have 
remained,  very  happily  raised  to  a  flne  altar  in  his  temple, 
very  distantly  recognized  as  a  beautiful  episode  now  closed 
and  contemplated  only  from  a  worshipping  distance,  had 
any  other  figure  or  incident  definitely  occupied  his  attention. 

But  no  figure,  no  incident  had  arrived.  He  had  had, 
during  all  these  weeks,  no  drama  into  which  he  might  fling 
his  fine  feelings,  his  great  ambitions,  his  glorious  sacrifices. 
Of  genuine  sincerity  were  these  moods  of  his  —  he  had  never 
stood  suflSciently  beyond  himself  to  arrive  at  any  definite 
insincerity  about  any  of  his  movements  or  impulses  —  but  of 
all  things  in  the  world  he  could  not  endure  that  his  life 
should  be  empty,  and  empty  now  it  had  been  for,  as  it  seemed 
to  his  swift  impatience,  a  long,  long  time. 

Christopher's  news  did  touch  him  very  deeply.  He  "w^ould 
instantly  have  sacrificed  his  life,  his  honour,  anything  at  all, 
for  Rachel,  and  the  fact  that  he  would  enjoy  the  drama  of 
that  sacrifice  did  not  rob  it  of  any  atom  of  its  sincerity. 

But  the  pity  of  it  was  that  he  really  did  not  see  what  he 
could  do.  Had  he  been  able,  here  and  now,  to  rush  into  the 
Portland  Place  house  and  seize  his  grandmother  by  the  throat 
and  shake  her,  or  had  it  been  possible  to  appear  before  Roddy 
Seddon,   to  declare  himself  the  only  culprit,  to  proclaim 


MAKCH  13TH:  BRETON'S  TIGER  383 

that  he  was  ready  for  any  condemnation,  any  punishment, 
then,  in  spite  of  all  his  nnhappiness,  he  would  be  now  a 
happy  man,  but,  alas,  the  only  possible  action  was  to  pause, 
to  see  what  happened,  to  wait  —  and  waiting  it  was  that  sent 
him  mad. 

One  action  indeed  was  possible  and  that  was  that  he 
should  put  a  close  to  his  wretched  existence.  On  this  close 
and  sterile  night  such  an  action  did  not  appear  at  all  absurd. 
It  had  fine  elements  about  it,  it  would  deal  a  sure  blow  at  his 
grandmother  and  all  that  family  who  had  treated  him  so 
basely.  What  a  headline  for  the  papers !  "  Suicide  of 
member  of  one  of  England's  noblest  families !  "  Rachel 
should  be,  no  longer,  annoyed  with  his  unfortunate  presence : 
he  would  make  it,  of  course,  quite  obvious  that  she  had  had 
nothing  to  do  with  his  sad  end. 

He  looked  about  him,  with  an  air  of  fine  melancholy,  at 
the  passers-by.  Little  they  knew  of  the  terrible  tragedy  that 
was  even  now  preparing  in  their  midst! 

He  felt  almost  happy  again  as  he  turned  this  solution  over 
and  over  again.  Some  people  would  be  sorry  —  Christopher, 
Lizzie  Rand,  and  Rachel:  above  all,  it  must  be  heavy  upon 
the  consciences  of  the  Duchess  and  her  wretched  children. 
They  had  driven  him  to  his  death  and  must  bear  the  blame 
to  the  grave  and  beyond. 

Very  faintly  the  rolling  of  thunder  could  be  heard  as  the 
storm  approached  the  town. 

He  was  standing  outside  the  Oxford  Music  Hall,  and  he 
thought  that  he  would  go  inside  for  a  little  time  that  he 
might  avoid  the  rain  .  .  .  and  then  upon  that  followed  the 
reflection  that  it  did  not  matter  whether  he  was  wet  or  no  — 
he  would  soon  be  dead. 

Faintly  behind  these  gloomy  resolves  some  voice  seemed 
to  tell  him  that  if  he  could  only  pass  safely  through  this 
night  fortune  would  again  be  kind  to  him.  "  Wait,"  some- 
thing told  him.  "  Be  patient  for  once  in  your  life."  .  .  . 
But  no,  to  wait  any  more  was  impossible.     Some  fine  action. 


884  THE  DUCHESS  OP  WKEXE 

some  splendid  defiance  or  heroic  defence,  here  and  now  .  .  • 
otherwise  he  would  show  the  world  that  he  had  courage,  at 
least,  to  die.  Most  of  his  impetuous  follies  had  their  origin 
in  his  conviction  that  the  eyes  of  the  world  were  always  upon 
him. 

He  paid  his  money  and  walked  into  the  circle  promenade. 
Behind  him  was  a  bar  at  which  several  stout  gentlemen  and 
ladies  were  happily  conversational.  In  front  of  him  a  crowd 
of  men  and  women  leaned  forward  over  the  back  of  the 
circle  and  listened  to  the  entertainment. 

On  the  stage,  in  a  circle  of  brilliant  light,  a  thin  man  with 
a  melancholy  face,  a  top  hat  and  pepper-and-salt  trousers 
was  singing  — 

"  Straike  me  pink  and  straike  me  blue, 
Straike  me  purple  and  crimson  too 

I'll   be   there, 

Lottie    dear, 
Down  by  the  old  Canteen." 

*'  !N"ow,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  once  more.  Let's  'ave  it  — 
all  together." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  the  orchestra  began 
yery  softly  and,  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  the  crowd  sang  — 

"  Straike  me  pink  and  straike  me  blue, 
Straike  me  purple  and  crimson  too,"  etc. 

Breton  sat  down  on  a  little  velvet  seat  near  the  bar  and 
gloomily  looked  about  him.  Did  they  only  realize,  these 
people,  the  tragedy  that  was  so  close  to  them,  then  would 
they  very  swiftly  cease  their  silly  singing.  The  place  was 
hot,  infernally  hot.  It  glowed  with  light,  it  crackled  with 
noise,  it  was  possessed  with  a  glaring  unreality.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  to  make  a  leap  upon  the  railing  at  the  back  of 
the  circle,  to  stand  for  one  instant  balanced  there  before  the 
frightened  people,  then  to  plunge,  down,  down,  into  the  stalls 
• — that  would  be  a  striking  finish!  How  they  would  aJl 
gcream,  and  run  and  scatter!  .  .  .  yes  ... 


MARCH  13TH:  BRETON'S  TIGER  S8S 

Against  the  clinking  and  chatter  of  the  bar  he  would  hear 
the  voice  of  the  funny  man :  "  And  so  I  says  to  'er,  '  Maria, 
if  you're  tryin'  to  prove  to  me  that  it's  two  in  the  momin', 
then  I  says  what  I  want  to  know  is  oo's  been  'elpin'  yer  to 
etay  awake  all  this  time  ?     That's  what  .  .  .'  " 

It  was  then  that,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was  drawn  from 
his  moody  thoughts  by  the  eyes  of  the  girl  standing  near  the 
bar  against  the  wall.  She  was  a  small,  timid,  rather  pale 
girl  in  a  huge  black  hat  She  wore  a  long  trailing  purple 
dress  and  soiled  white  gloves,  and  was  looking,  just  now, 
unhappy  and  frightened. 

He  had  noticed  her  because  of  the  contrast  that  her  white 
face  and  small  body  made  with  her  grand  untidy  clothes, 
but,  looking  at  her  more  closely,  he  saw  something  about  her 
that  stirred  all  his  sympathy  and  protection. 

Like  most  Englishmen  he  was  at  heart  an  eager  senti- 
mentalist and  he  was,  just  now,  in  a  mood  that  responded 
instantly  to  anyone  in  distress. 

He  forgot  for  the  moment  his  desperate  plans  of  self-de- 
struction. A  fat  red-faced  man  came  from  the  bar  towards 
her,  with  two  drinks;  he  was  himself  very  unsteady  and 
uncertain  in  his  movements  and  his  smile  was  both  vacuous 
and  full  of  purpose.  He  lurched  towards  her,  put  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder  to  steady  himself,  then,  as  one  of  the 
glasses  spilled,  cursed. 

She  refused  the  drink,  but  he  continued  to  press  it  upon 
her.  His  fat  hand  wandered  about  her  neck,  stroked  her 
chin,  and  he  was  leaning  now  so  that  his  face  almost  touched 
hers. 

Breton  heard  him  say  — 

"  Well,  if  you  won't  drink  —  damme  —  come  along,  my 
dear  —  let's  be  goin'."  She  shook  her  head,  her  eyes  growing 
larger  and  larger. 

"  JSTonshensh,"  he  said.  "  Dam  nonshensh."  She  glanced 
about  her  desperately,  but  no  one,  save  Breton,  was  watching 
them.     She  caught  his  eyes,  pitifully,  eagerly. 


886  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

The  man  put  his  arm  about  her  and  tried  to  draw  her  from 
the  wall. 

"  Come,"  he  said.     "  "We'll  go  home." 

She  drew  away.  He  pulled  at  her  hand.  "  Damn  the 
O Place.     "Wash  the  matter?     You  got  to  come." 

Then  he  seized  her  by  the  arm,  and,  still  lurching  from  side 
to  side,  began  to  move  away. 

"  'No,  no,"  she  whispered,  obviously  terrified  of  a  scene, 
but  using  all  her  strength  to  resist.  Her  eyes  again  met 
Breton's. 

"  That  lady,"  he  said,  advancing  to  the  stout  gentleman, 
"  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

The  man  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  astonished, 
simple  and  rather  puzzled. 

"  "Wash  —  wash  ...    ?  "  he  said. 

*^  You'll  be  so  good  as  to  leave  that  lady  alone." 

"  Well,  I'm  b well  damned.     Oh !  gosh."     The  stout 

gentleman    contemplated    him    with    furious     amazement. 

"  'Oo  the  b 'ell  I'd  like  to  know?     Get  out  or  I'll  kick 

yer  out." 

The  quarrel  had  by  now  gathered  its  crowd. 

The  stout  gentleman,  lurching  forward,  aimed  a  blow  at 
Breton  which  missed  him. 

"  Let  her  alone,  do  you  hear  ?  "  cried  Breton. 

The  stout  gentleman,  amazed,  apparently,  at  a  world  that 
defied  all  the  probabilities,  turned,  caught  the  girl  by  the 
body  and,  dragging  her  with  him,  pushed  past  his  opponent. 

Breton  seized  him  by  the  waist,  turned  him  round  so  that, 
with  a  little  puzzled  gasp,  he  half  fell,  half  sat  upon  the 
cushioned  seat  against  the  wall. 

Then  Breton  offered  the  girl  his  arm  and  walked  away  with 
her,  conscious  that  an  attendant  had  arrived  rather  late  upon 
the  scene  and  was  now  abusing  the  stout  gentleman,  whilst  a 
sympathetic  little  crowd  listened  and  advised. 

He  walked  down  the  stairs  with  the  girl.  "  That  tm^ 
decent  of  you,"  she  said.     "  Most  awfully '' 


MAUCH  13TH:  BRETON'S  TIGER  387 

Beyond  the  doors  the  world  was  a  hissing,  spurting  deluge 
of  rain. 

A  cab  was  called  and  she  climbed  into  it. 

"  What  about  coming  back  ?  "  she  said.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"  'Not  to-night.  You  have  a  good  rest.  That's  what  you 
want." 

"  Well,  I  am  done.     Meet  'nother  night  p'raps " 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  said  politely.  He  raised  his  hat  and  the 
cab  splashed  away. 

"  Another  cab,  sir  ?  "  said  the  commissionaire. 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Breton,  and  plunged  out  into  the  rain. 
The  air  was  fresh  and  cool.  Streams  of  water  danced  and 
spurted  on  the  gleaming  pavements. 

Breton  walked  along.  The  little  adventure  had  swept  com- 
pletely from  his  mind  his  earlier  desperate  decisions. 

There  were  still  things  for  him  to  do !  Poor  little  girl  ,  ,  . 
he  was  glad  that  he  had  been  there!  What  a  fool  he  had 
been  all  these  weeks,  sitting  there,  letting  himself  go  to  pieces 
because  the  world  had  gone  badly !  What  sort  of  a  creature 
was  he  ?  Well,  he  was  some  good  yet.  Just  one  twist  of  the 
hand  and  that  man  had  gone  down  .  .  .  Yes,  she  was  grate- 
ful .  .  .  Her  eyes  had  shone. 

And  what  of  the  candles,  his  business?  Why  had  he  al- 
lowed that  to  drop  when  he  had  made,  already,  so  good  a 
start  ?  He  would  be  in  the  City  early  to-morrow.  Business 
was  humming  just  now. 

And  Rachel?     Rachel! 

Let  him  be  content  to  have  her  as  his  ideal,  his  fine  beacon 
to  light  him  on,  to  hold  him  to  his  work  and  do  the  best  that 
was  in  him ! 

After  all,  things  were  for  the  best.  They  would  always 
have  their  fine  memories,  one  of  the  other.  Nothing  to  spoil 
that  idyll. 

He  arrived,  soaked  to  the  very  skin,  at  his  door.  "  Funny," 
he  thought,  "  how  that  thunder  depresses  one.     I've  been 


388  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

moody  for  weeks.  Air's  ever  so  much  clearer  now.  God, 
didn't  that  old  beast  tumble  ?  —  Poor  little  girl  —  she  was 
grateful  though !  " 

Then  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  remembered  what  Chris- 
topher had,  that  evening,  told  him. 

"  To-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself,  in  a  fine  glow  of  hope 
and  confidence,  "  to-morrow  I'll  get  to  work  and  soon  stop 
that  wicked  old  woman's  mouth.  Hachel  —  God  bless  her 
• —  I'll  show  her  what  I'm  like.  .  .  ." 

He  climbed  the  dark  stairs  Qs  though  he  were  storming  a 

tOWIli 


CHAPTER  V 

MARCH  13th:     RACHEL'S  HEART 

•  When  God  smote  His  hands  together,  and  struck  out  the  soul  at  a 
spark, 
Into  the  orgaoaized  glory  of  things,  from  drops  of  the  dark, — 
Say,  didst  thou  shine,  didst  thou  burn,  didst  thou  honour  the  power 

in  the  form, 
Aa  the  star  does  at  night,  or  the  fire-fly,  or  even  the  little  ground- 
worm  ? 

'  I  have  sinned,'  she  said." 

Elizabeth  Baebett  BEowjs^iNa 


MEANWHILE  Rachel  had  not  spoken  to  Roddy.  Bad 
though  the  months  had  been  since  that  terrible 
afternoon  at  Seddon  these  days  that  followed  the  Duchess's 
visit  were  the  worst  that  she  had  ever  known. 

During  the  weeks  that  immediately  followed  Roddy's  ac- 
cident she  was  allowed  no  time  for  thought.  She  discovered 
—  and  she  never  forgot  the  sharpness  of  the  discovery  —  that 
she  was  the  poorest  of  nurses.  Everything  that  she  did  was 
clumsily  and  slowly  done;  she  watched  Lizzie  Rand  with 
admiration  and  wonder.  Dimly  through  the  absorption  that 
held  her,  thoughts  of  Francis  Breton  pierced,  but  always  to 
be  instantly  dismissed. 

Before  her  was  simply  the  amazing,  incredible  fact  that 
Roddy,  the  most  active,  the  most  vigorous  of  human  beings, 
would  never  stand  upon  his  feet  again.  She  could  see  noth- 
ing but  Roddy,  and  no  service,  no  sacrifice,  was  too  stem 
or  too  difficult.  Meanwhile  subtly,  almost  unconsciously,  she 
was  influenced  by  Lizzie  Rand.  It  was  not  strange  to  her 
that  Lizzie  should  have  changed  so  swiftly  from  hatred  to 
friendship  and  affection.  Rachel  was  passionate  enough  her- 
self to  understand  that  a  woman  will  go,  instantly,  to  the 

389 


S90  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

person  who  needs  her  most,  even  though  she  has  hated  thai 
same  person  five  minutes  before.  No,  the  thing  that  was 
wonderful  to  her  was  that  Lizzie  Kand  should  combine  such 
feeling  with  such  discipline. 

To  watch  her  as  she  moved  about  Eoddj's  rooms  was  to 
deny  to  her  the  possibility  of  emotion,  of  anything  that  could 
disturb  that  efficiency.  And  yet  Rachel  knew  .  .  .  she  had 
seen  depths  of  feeling  in  Lizzie  that  made  her  own  desires 
and  regrets  small  and  puny  things. 

But  it  did  not  need  Lizzie's  power  to  abase  Eachel  before 
Roddy.  It  would  have  been  enough  for  her  to  have  re- 
membered what  her  thoughts  and  intentions  had  been  on 
that  day  to  have  brought  her  on  her  knees  to  beg  his  pardon, 
but  when  she  saw  the  fashion  in  which  he  bore  his  sentence, 
his  endurance,  his  stubborn  will  beating  down  any  tempta- 
tion to  despair,  she  recognized  that  it  was  very  little  of  Roddy 
that  she  had  known  before  this  crisis. 

Then  as  the  weeks  passed  and  the  world  settled  into  this 
new  shape  and  form,  thoughts  of  Francis  Breton  returned 
to  her.  She  had  written  to  him  soon  after  the  accident,  but 
that  was  for  herself,  that  she  might  clear  her  mind  of  any- 
thing except  her  husband,  rather  than  for  Breton.  She  had 
considered  him  whilst  she  wrote  that  letter,  had  seen  him  as 
someone  in  her  old,  old  life,  someone  who  had  stirred  her 
then  but  possessed  now  no  power  to  move  her.  She  wanted 
him  to  be  happy,  but  wished  never  to  see  him  again;  once, 
long  ago,  there  had  been  a  scene  in  a  room  and  she  had  been 
carried  up  to  strange  and  dangerous  heights  and  the  world 
had  tossed  and  stormed  about  her  —  but  oh!  how  long  ago 
that  was !    How  young  she  had  been  then ! 

But,  as  the  weeks  passed,  that  scene  drew  closer  to  her 
and  life  crept  back  into  its  heart.  Sometimes,  when  Roddy 
was  sleeping  and  she  was  sitting  there  beside  him,  and, 
about  her,  the  house  slumbered  and  the  very  birds  were  still, 
her  heart  would  beat,  beat  thickly,  her  cheeks  would  flush, 
and  she  would  remember  that,  had  it  not  been  for  a  horse 


MAUCH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  391 

that  stumbled,  she  might  be  now  far  away,  leading  a  lifu  that 
might  be  tragedy,  but  that  was,  at  any  rate,  Life ! 

She  would  beat  the  thought  down  —  she  would  tell  herself 
what,  now,  from  this  distance,  she  knew  to  be  true,  that  she 
would  not  have  been  happy  had  she  gone  with  Breton.  She 
remembered  that  even  at  that  supreme  moment  in  Breton's 
rooms  when  he  had  kissed  her  for  the  first  time  her  swift 
thought  had  been  "  Poor  Roddy ! "  She  knew,  with  an 
older  wisdom  than  she  had  possessed  two  months  ago,  that 
Breton  on  his  side  would  not  have  held  her  any  more  than 
Roddy,  in  his  so  different  fashion,  could  hold  her  now.  Was 
she  to  be  always  thus,  wanting  something  that  was  not  hers  ? 

During  the  weeks  that  had  immediately  followed  the  ac- 
cident she  had  thought  that,  at  last,  love  for  Roddy  had  really 
come  to  her.  Then,  as  the  days  threaded  their  way,  she 
knew  that  it  was  not  so.  He  was  more  to  her,  much  more 
to  her,  helpless  and  courageous,  than  he  could  ever  have  been 
Tonder  the  old  conditions. 

But  it  was  not  passion  —  it  was  care,  affection,  even  love ; 
she  loved  him,  yes,  but  she  was  not  in  love  with  him.  He 
held  all  of  her  save  that  one  part  that  Breton  alone,  of  all 
human  beings,  had  called  out  of  her. 

But  she  had  learnt  discipline  during  these  weeks  —  down, 
down  she  drove  rebellion,  memory.  She  was  Roddy's  —  she 
had  dedicated  her  life  to  his  happiness. 

Then  they  came  to  London,  Lizzie  returned  to  her  mother 
and  to  Lady  Adela,  and  Rachel  was  alone.  Life  was  again 
very  difl&cult  for  her.  Roddy  was  wonderfully  cheerful,  but 
Rachel  found  that  she  could  not  do  very  much  for  him.  He 
liked  to  have  her  there,  but  she  knew  that  many  of  his  friends 
who  could  tell  him  the  town  gossip,  the  latest  from  the  clubs, 
the  hunting  and  racing  chatter,  entertained  him  more  than 
she  did.  She  had  not,  since  her  marriage,  made  many  friends 
and  she  knew  that  almost  everyone  who  came  to  their  little 
house  came  for  Roddy's  sake  rather  than  for  hers.  She  did 
not  mind  that  —  she  was  glad  that  he  was  happy  .  .  .  but 


892  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

she  wished  that  he  needed  her  a  little  more.  Roddy  urged 
her  to  drive,  to  see  people,  to  dine  and  go  to  the  theatre.  She 
went  because  she  saw  that  it  disturbed  him  if  he  felt  that  she 
stayed  indoors  for  his  sake,  but  she  did  not  enjoy  her  gaiety. 
When  she  was  out  she  wished  to  hurry  back  to  him  and  then, 
when  she  was  with  him  again,  she  often  wondered  whether  her 
presence  made  him  any  happier.  Through  all  his  intercourse 
with  her  she  discerned  a  wistful  restraint  as  though  he  would 
like  to  ask  her  for  something  that  he  had  not  got  and  yet  was 
afraid.  When  she  felt  this  in  him  she  redoubled  her  affection 
towards  him,  but  she  thought  that  he  noticed  this  and  knew 
her  effort. 

Her  thoughts  went  often  now  to  Erancis  Breton,  not  as  to 
anyone  whom  she  would  ever  see  again  —  but  she  hoped  that 
he  was  happy,  wondered  whether  there  was  anyone  to  look 
after  him,  wished  that  he  had  some  friend  so  that  she  might 
know  that  he  was  safe.  Her  pride  did  not  allow  her  to 
speak  to  Lizzie  Rand  about  him ;  they  had  had  one  talk  when 
Lizzie  had  taken  her  letter,  but  that  was  all. 

Then,  as  February  drew  to  a  close,  she  was  unwell;  that 
was  so  unusual  for  her  that  she  might  have  been  disturbed 
had  it  been  anything  more  material  than  headaches,  strange 
fits  of  indifference  to  everything  and  a  general  failure  of 
energy.  She  thought  that  she  was  indoors  too  much  and 
was  now  in  the  air  as  often  as  her  duties  to  Roddy  allowed 
her. 

But  the  indifference  persisted.  Her  feelings  for  Roddy 
were  an  odd  confusion;  there  were  times,  when  she  was 
away  from  him,  and  the  thought  of  him  made  her  heart  beat 
— "  This  is  love  —  at  last"  There  were  times  again  when, 
as  she  sat  beside  him,  she  could  have  beaten  her  hands  against 
the  walls  for  very  boredom  and  for  his  impenetrable  taciturn- 
ity as  he  read  The  Times  from  the  Births  and  Marriages  on 
the  front  page  to  the  advertisements  on  the  last  and  flung  her 
details  — "  London  Scottish  won  their  game  at  Richmond  — 
That  Fettes  man  got  over  three  times,"  or  "  I  wouldn't  give 


MAKCH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  393 

a  button  for  that  horse  of  old  Tranty  Stummits  they're  all  so 
gone  on.  You  mark  my  words.  .  .  ."  "  I'd  like  to  see  that 
new  piece  of  Edwardes' " — "  They've  got  a  girl  in  it  who 
dances  on  her  nose  —  jolly  pretty  she  is,  too,  so  Massiter  says. 
He's  been  five  times  and  there's  a  song  about  moonlight  or 

some  old  rot  that  they  say  is  spiffin' "     How  to  adjust 

this  horrible  stupidity  with  the  courage,  the  humour,  the  af- 
fection, even  the  poetry  that  she  found  in  him  at  other  times  ? 

There  were  days  when  she  cared  for  him  with  a  new  thrill- 
ing emotion,  something  that  had  in  it  a  quality  of  curiosity 
as  though  he  were  coming  before  her  as  someone  unknown 
and  unexpected.  There  were  other  days  when  she  wondered 
how  he  could  have  remained,  through  all  the  crisis,  so  pre- 
cisely the  same  Roddy. 

Meanwhile  between  all  these  uncertainties  she  lost  touch 
with  herself.  It  was  as  though  her  soul  flew,  like  some  bird 
in  a  strange  country,  from  point  to  point,  restless,  unsatis- 
fied. ... 

n 

Then  those  few  hurried  words  with  Christopher  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  Duchess's  visit  flung,  at  an  instant,  her  whole 
life  into  crisis.  Even  as  the  words  left  him  she  knew  that  it 
was  up  to  this  that  all  her  days  had  been  leading,  that  at 
last  she  was,  in  very  truth,  face  to  face  with  her  grandmother, 
that  the  battle  between  the  two  of  them  had  commenced. 

She  knew,  in  those  few  minutes  whilst  she  stood  there, 
motionless,  in  that  room,  other  things.  She  knew  —  and 
this  was  the  first  sharp  conviction  that  struck  her  heart  — 
that,  at  all  costs,  whatever  else  might  come  to  her,  she  must 
not  now  lose  Roddy's  love.  Strangely,  as  she  stood  there 
facing  her  danger,  some  warm  glow  heightened  her  colour 
as  she  felt  from  this  what  Roddy  really  meant  to  her.  She 
thought  then  of  Francis  Breton,  of  his  danger  if  her  family 
understood  how  implicated  he  was  with  her.  It  was  true 
that  she  had,  not  very  long  ago,  contemplated  running  away 


394  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

with  him,  and  surely  nothing  could  have  implicated  him 
more  than  that,  but  now  that  he  should  suffer  and  yet  not 
have  her,  secured,  as  his  reward  for  his  suffering  —  that,  at 
all  pain  to  herself,  she  must  prevent. 

Her  first  impulse  after  Christopher  had  left  her  was  to  go 
down  instantly  to  Eoddy  and  confess  everything.  Then  she 
paused. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  her  grandmother  had  not  spoken  ?  In 
that  case  how  cruel  to  make  Eoddy  miserable  with  something 
that  was  dead  and  already  remote.  In  her  heart  too  was 
terror  lest  she  should  precipitate  Breton  into  some  peril.  On 
every  side  it  seemed  to  her  better  that  she  should  wait  and 
discover,  perhaps  through  Christopher,  perhaps  by  her  own 
intelligence,  what  exactly  had  occurred. 

Four  days  afterwards,  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day  that 
brought  Breton  to  dine  with  Christopher,  she  had  not  yet 
spoken.  She  had  taken  no  steps  at  all;  despising  herself, 
afraid  for  Breton,  feeling  at  one  instant  that  Eoddy  knew 
everything,  at  another  that  he  knew  nothing,  ill  with  this 
same  lassitude  that  had  hung  about  her  now  for  so  many 
weeks,  determining  at  one  moment  that  she  would  confront 
her  grandmother,  at  another  that  she  would  go  instantly  and 
confess  to  Eoddy. 

Yet  Eachel  hesitated  and  did  nothing. 

On  this  close  and  heavy  afternoon  Eachel  sat  up  in  her  little 
drawing-room,  wondering  whether  she  would  wait  there  for 
possible  callers,  or  go  down  to  Eoddy,  who  was  being  enter- 
tained at  the  moment  by  Lord  Massiter,  or,  complete  con- 
fession of  surrender  to  nerves  and  general  catastrophe,  go  up 
to  her  bedroom,  pull  down  the  blinds  and  lie  there,  hunting 
sleep. 

The  day  was  intolerably  heavy.  The  windows  of  the  little 
room  had  all  been  flung  open  and,  through  the  park,  figures 
wearily  dragged  themselves  and  the  waters  of  the  lake  lay 
as  though  they  had  fallen,  because  of  this  leaden  heaviness, 
from  the  grey  sky. 


MARCH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  395 

She  sat  there,  listening  for  every  sound,  starting  at  every 
opening  or  closing  of  a  door,  thinking  that  were  Lord  Mas- 
siter  not  there  she  would  go  down  now  and  tell  everything  to 
Roddy,  yet  knowing  in  her  heart  that  if  Peters  were  to  come 
now  and  tell  her  that  his  master  was  alone  she  would  not 
move. 

Peters  did  come,  but  it  was  to  tell  her  that  Lord  John 
would  like  to  see  her.  Uncle  John!  She  scarcely  knew 
whether  she  hailed  him  as  a  relief  or  no. 

"  Oh !  ask  him  to  come  up,  Peters,  at  once.  Bring  tea 
here.     Lord  Massiter  will  have  his  downstairs,  I  expect." 

Had  her  grandmother  told  Uncle  John  anything?  Was 
his  visit  in  connection  with  anything  that  he  had  heard? 
Of  all  the  changes  that  her  marriage  had  brought  her,  that 
she  should  have  slipped  away  from  Uncle  John  was  one  of  the 
saddest.  She  loved  him  as  dearly  as  ever,  but  restraint  had 
been  there  between  them,  struggle  against  it  though  they 
might.  He  was,  like  Roddy,  so  ineloquent  that  anything 
like  a  situation  was  real  agony  to  him;  he  could  never  ex- 
plain his  feelings  about  anything  and  he  would  eagerly  agree 
with  you  that  it  was  a  great  pity  that  he  had  any.  What 
had  made  this  trouble  between  them  ?  Rachel  only  knew 
that  now  there  were  so  many  things  in  her  life  which  Uncle 
John  could  not  understand.  At  her  heart  her  love  for  him 
was  as  clear  and  simple  as  it  had  ever  been. 

But  oh !  Uncle  John  was  glad  to  see  her !  His  picture  of 
her,  as  she  sat  there,  her  cheeks  flushed,  in  a  rose-coloured 
dress,  with  the  room  as  soft  and  delicate  as  a  shell  around 
her,  filled  him  with  delight:  changes  had  come  to  him  even 
since  their  last  meeting.  The  lines  in  his  forehead  seemed 
to  her  a  little  deeper,  his  eyes  were  anxious  and  his  smile 
less  sure  and  genial.  He  wore  a  beautiful  white  waistcoat 
and  sat  there,  with  his  chest  out,  his  white  hair  rising  into  a 
crest,  looking  exactly  like  a  pouter  pigeon. 

"  Dear  Uncle  John !     I'm  so  glad !  " 
■^  "  Well,  my  dear,  I  was  just  passing.     Been  to  some  womao 


896  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

who's  got  a  party  in  Harley  House.  War  party,  of  course^ 
there  were  characters  of  the  names  of  different  generals  and 
if  you  won  you  paid  a  guinea  to  the  War  Fund  —  quite  a 
reversal  of  the  ordinary  proceedings.  I'm  sure,  my  dear,  I 
don't  know  why  I  went.  Well,  it  was  so  close  that  I  felt  I 
couldn't  walk  back,  even  to  104,  without  a  cup  of  tea  from 
you.     How's  Roddy  ?  " 

"  All  right.  Lord  Massiter's  been  down  there  chatting  to 
him  ever  since  three  o'clock.  Would  you  like  us  to  go  down 
and  have  our  tea  with  them,  or  shall  we  stay  cosily  up  here  by 
ourselves  ? " 

"  Why,  stay  up  here  of  course !  You're  not  lookmg  very 
well,  my  dear.  You've  not  been  the  thing  lately,  have  you  ? 
This  business  with  Roddy  ?  ..."  (he  took  her  hand  and  held 
it) — "  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  you  went 
away  for  a  week  or  two  and  had  a  change  ? " 

"  1^0,  Uncle  John  dear,  thank  you.  I  am  tired  and  I  will 
go  away  later  on,  but  just  now  it  would  only  make  me  anxious 
and  I  should  worry  about  Roddy." 

Tea  was  brought.  She  looked  at  Uncle  John  and  thought 
that  he  had  heard  nothing.  His  guileless  eyes  smiled  back 
at  her;  all  that  she  could  discern  in  him  was  apprehen- 
sion lest  he  should  say  something  to  displease  her,  to  make 
her  angry.  Bless  his  heart,  he  need  not  be  afraid  of  that 
now! 

As  she  gave  him  his  sugar  she  felt  that  some  of  the  old 
intimate  relationship  between  them  was  creeping  back. 

"  Of  course  you  heard  of  grandmother's  wonderful  visit 
to  us  the  other  day,"  Rachel  said.  "  Wasn't  it  amazing  ? 
and  Christopher  says  that  she  was  none  the  worse  —  rather 
the  better." 

"  Amazing,"  said  Uncle  John  very  solemnly.  "  Perfectly 
astonishing.  Your  grandmother,  Rachel,  is  an  astounding 
woman.  Just  when  we  were  all  of  us  thinking  that  she  was 
really  not  quite  so  well,  quite  so  fit  as  she  used  to  be,  she 
comes  along  and  does  something  that  she  hasn't  done  for 


MARCH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  397 

thirty  years.  I  confess  I  was  nervous  when  I  first  heard  of 
it,  but  Christopher  reassured  me  —  said  it  would  do  her  no 
harm,  and  it  hasn't." 

"  It  shows  what  her  affection  for  Roddy  is,"  Rachel  said 
slowly. 

"  And  for  you,  dear,"  Uncle  John  said  timidly.  "  I  know 
that  you  haven't  —  well,  haven't  —  that  is,  weren't  always 
very  friendly,  but  I  hope  that  now  you've  come  to  understand 
her  a  little  more.  She's  a  difficult  woman.  She  wouldn't  be 
so  splendid  if  she  weren't  so  difficult." 

He  saw  those  hard  lines  that  he  knew  of  old  strike  into 
Rachel's  face.  He  shrank  back  himself,  afraid  that  he  had, 
by  one  ruthless  sentence,  lost  all  the  happy  intimacy  that  had 
returned  to  them. 

She  had  risen  and  walked  to  the  window.  "  Dear  Uncle 
John,"  she  said,  "  I  know  you'd  like  us  to  be  friends,  bless 
you.  But  you  may  as  well  give  that  idea  up,  once  and  for 
ever.  Grandmother  and  I  —  the  old  and  the  new  generation, 
you  know.  There's  never  been  anything  but  war  and  never 
will  be.  Besides,  she's  never  forgiven  me  for  marrying 
Roddy,  although  she  arranged  it  all." 

"  Oh !  my  dear !  "  said  Uncle  John. 

"  No,  it  is  so.  I  shouldn't  be  astonished,"  she  continued 
bitterly,  "  if  I  were  to  hear  that  she  thinks  that  I  flung  Roddy 
from  his  horse  and  trampled  on  him.  It  would  be  quite 
likely." 

Then,  suddenly,  she  came  back  from  the  window  to  the 
sofa  where  Uncle  John,  looking  greatly  distressed,  was  sitting. 
She  leaned  down,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  her  cheek 
next  to  his. 

"  Uncle  John  dear.  Don't  you  worry  about  grandmother 
and  me.  That's  an  old,  old  story  and  it  can't  alter.  The 
case  of  us  two,  you  and  me,  is  much  more  important.  I've 
been  a  beast,  for  a  long  time.  Uncle  John.  We've  got  away 
from  one  another  somehow  and  it's  all  been  my  fault.  I've 
been  a  prig  and  all  sorts  of  horrid  things,  and  I've  let  things 


898  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

come  between  us.  Nothing  shall  ever  come  between  us  again 
—  never." 

He  kissed  her  and  his  fat  body  thrilled  with  happiness. 
Amongst  all  the  distressing  things  that  this  last  year  had 
brought  him,  nothing  had  been  more  distressing  than  his 
separation  from  Rachel;  now  the  old  Rachel  had  come  back 
to  him  again. 

They  sat  on  the  sofa  there  and  he  talked  of  a  number  of 
things  in  his  old  happy,  disconnected  way.  Some  of  her 
apprehension  lifted  from  Rachel,  she  forgot  the  closeness  of 
the  day  and  sat  there,  happier  than  she  had  been  for  many 
weeks.     Six  o'clock  struck  and  he  got  up  to  go. 

"  Taking  your  aunt  out  to  dinner.  You  going  anywhere 
to-night,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It's  such  a  nuisance,  but  Roddy  insists  on  my 
going.  I'd  so  much  rather  stay  with  him.  It's  only  a  silly 
little  dinner  at  Lady  Carloes'.  She's  asked  a  harpist  in 
afterwards !     Fancy,  harpist !  " 

But  Uncle  John  liked  Lady  Carloes.  She  was  an  old 
friend  of  his.  "  Don't  laugh  at  Lady  Carloes,  dear.  She's 
a  kind  creature,  and  been  a  friend  of  the  family's  for  ever 
so  long  —  a  devoted  friend." 

He  stopped  suddenly.  "  By  the  way,  something  I  meant 
to  have  told  you."  He  dropped  his  voice.  "  You  needn't 
say  anything  about  it  and  I  don't  want  to  worry  your  grand- 
mother. I'm  afraid  she  wouldn't  like  it.  But  the  black 
sheep  is  to  be  restored  to  the  fold." 

"  The  black  sheep  ? "  said  Rachel,  wondering. 

"  Yes,"  said  Uncle  John.  "  Your  Cousin  Frank  Breton, 
my  dear.  Your  Uncle  Vincent  and  your  aunt  and  I  thought 
that  he'd  behaved  so  well,  been  so  quiet  and  steady  all  this 
time,  that  really  something  ought  to  be  done  about  him. 
It's  been  on  my  conscience,  I  can  assure  you,  for  a  long  time 
past.  Well,  I've  written  to  him.  I'm  going  to  see  him.  Of 
course  it's  better  to  be  quiet  about  it  whilst  your  grandmother 
feels  as  she  does  —  but  in  time " 


MARCH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  399 

Rachel's  voice  was  sharp  and  rather  harsh  as  she  said, 
"  Dear  Uncle  John,  that  is  kind  of  you.  I'm  so  glad.  Poor 
Cousin  Frank!     I  always  felt  it  unfair." 

John  looked  at  her  with  one  of  his  supplicating,  "  Please- 
don't-be-hard-on-me  "  glances. 

Rachel  really  was  strange.  She  seemed  to  dislike  the  idea 
of  Breton's  redemption.  He  had  thought  that  she  would 
have  been  delighted. 

She  kissed  him.  "  I^othing's  ever  to  come  between  us 
again,"  she  whispered.     He  pressed  her  hand. 

"  I  must  just  look  in  upon  Roddy,"  he  said,  and  they  went 
down  together. 

m 

The  thought  that  instantly  occurred  to  her  was  that  she 
must  not  allow  Uncle  John  to  talk  to  Roddy  about  Breton. 
She  saw  some  innocent  word  falling,  like  a  match  into  a 
haystack,  and  starting  immediately  the  most  horrible  blaze. 

There  were  other  thoughts  behind  that  —  thoughts  of  her 
grandmother's  actions  when  she  heard  of  this,  thoughts  of 
Roddy's  probable  decision  about  it,  thoughts  that  she,  Rachel, 
might  prove  to  be  the  one  person  in  the  world  who  had 
helped  to  drive  Breton  out,  thoughts  intolerable  were  they, 
for  a  moment,  indulged  —  but  now,  as  she  walked,  laughing, 
downstairs,  with  Uncle  John,  her  one  urgent  resolve  was 
to  prevent  an  immediate  scene. 

She  need  not  have  feared.  Massiter,  stout,  red-faced, 
hearty  and  stupid,  held  the  stage.  He  had  been  holding  it 
since  three  o'clock  and  Roddy's  white  face  showed  fatigue, 
his  eyes  were  half  closed  and,  although  he  smiled,  his  mind, 
distressed  and  exhausted,  was  far  away. 

Rachel's  glance  at  him  told  her  that  his  visitor  had  been 
too  much  for  him.  When  she  saw  Roddy  like  this  she  longed 
to  have  him  alone,  away  from  all  the  world,  to  love  him  and 
care  for  him ;  although,  in  hard  fact,  when  he  was  worn  out, 
Peters  was  of  more  value  than  she.     She  looked  at  him  now. 


400  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

loved  him  and  was  also  afraid;  she  hated  Lord  Massiter,  at 
this  moment,  and  hoped  that  he  would  go. 

He  talked  in  his  cheerful  voice,  as  though  he  were  address- 
ing an  assembly  in  the  open  air.  He  spoke  of  the  hunting 
(pretty  rotten),  of  the  musical  comedies  (absolutely  rotten), 
of  our  tactics  in  South  Africa  (rotten  of  course  beyond  all 
words),  and  of  farming  on  his  land  in  the  country  (unspeak- 
ably rotten),  and  was  cheerful  about  all  these  things.  He 
knew  that  he  had  been  self-sacrificing  and  had  spent  a  whole 
afternoon  in  cheering  up  "  that  poor  devil,  Seddon.  Got  to 
lie  on  his  back  all  his  life,  poor  chap.  Active  beggar  he  was 
too." 

He  overwhelmed  Lord  John,  whom  he  liked  but  scorned. 
"  !N'ever  takes  any  decent  exercise,  John  Beaminster.  Al- 
ways about  with  a  parcel  of  women."  Einally  he  departed, 
carrying  with  him  a  faint  scent  of  soap  and  tobacco,  swearing 
that  it  was  the  closest  night  he'd  ever  known  and  wiping  his 
red  forehead  with  the  air  of  one  who  rules  this  country  and  is 
going  very  shortly  to  enjoy  an  excellent  meal. 

Soon  Uncle  John  also  departed. 

Roddy,  alone  with  Rachel,  faintly  smiled  and  then  closed 
his  eyes  again. 

"  Better  go  and  dress,  dear.     It's  gone  half-past  six." 

"  What  on  earth  did  he  stay  all  that  time  for,  roaring  like 
a  bull  ?  "  she  cried  indignantly.  "  Tired  you  out.  Roddy, 
dear,  I  don't  think  I'll  go  out  to  dinner.  I'll  send  a  wire  to 
Lady  Carloes." 

"  No,  you  must,"  he  said  firmly.  "  It's  too  late  to  dis- 
appoint her." 

"  It's  such  an  appalling  night.  I'm  not  feeling  awfully 
well.  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  one  of  her  dinners. 
There'll  be  old  Lord  Crewner,  old  Mrs,  Brunning  and  young 
somebody  or  other  for  me,  and  I  believe  Uncle  Richard.  I 
simply  couldn't  stand  it." 

"  Aren't  you  well  ?  "     He  looked  up  at  her  sharply. 

"  Not  very."     Their  eyes  met;  she  turned  hers  away.     Sho 


MARCH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  401 

Was  desperately  near  to  tears,  near  to  flinging  herself  down 
at  his  side  and  hiding  her  head  and  telling  him  all.  "  Wait 
—  wait  —  perhaps  he  knows  nothing  .  .  ." 

Still  looking  away  from  him  she  said,  "  Oh  yes !  I  must 
go,  of  course.     It's  only  this  thunder  that  one  feels." 

She  bent  down,  hurriedly,  and  kissed  him.  They  said 
good  night  to  one  another  and  she  left  the  room. 

Later,  in  the  carriage,  she  saw  his  white  face  and  was 
miserable.  She  thought  of  Breton  and  that  made  her  miser- 
able too.  To  everyone  she  seemed  to  bring  unhappiness. 
The  stifling  evening  held  a  hand  at  her  throat;  the  carriage 
moved  languidly  along  —  on  every  side  of  her  she  saw  people 
listlessly  moving  as  though  controlled  by  an  enchantment. 
She  really  was  ill.  "  If  I  don't  look  out,"  she  thought,  "  I 
shall  be  hysterical  to-night.  I  shall  just  have  to  hold  on 
and  keep  quiet.  I've  never  felt  like  this  before.  Fancy 
being  hysterical  before  Uncle  Richard.  How  surprised  he'd 
be  and  how  he'd  disapprove !  " 

In  Lady  Carloes'  small  and  stuffy  drawing-room  bony  Mrs. 
Brunning  and  Lord  Crewner  were  being  polite  to  one  another. 
One  would  suppose  that  it  had  been  Lady  Carloes'  intention 
to  gather  together  into  a  confined  space  as  many  of  her  grand- 
mother's possessions  as  possible.  Her  grandmother  had  known 
Sir  Walter  Scott  and  had  Lord  Wellington  to  tea  and  spent 
several  days  in  the  country  with  Joanna  Baillie.  The  little 
room  had  an  old  faded  wall-paper  covered  thickly  with  prints, 
miniatures  and  fading  water-colours.  On  the  many  little 
tables  were  scattered  old  keepsakes,  "  bijouterie "  of  every 
kind,  dragon  china,  coloured  stones  and  even  an  ebony  box 
with  sea-shells.  There  were  cabinets  and  glass  cases,  several 
chattering  clocks,  nodding  mandarins  and  shepherdesses  on 
the  mantelpiece,  a  faded  illustrated  edition  of  Sir  Walter's 
poems  and,  finally,  three  cats  with  large  blue  bows  and  tink- 
ling bells.  All  these  things  added,  immensely,  to  Rachel's 
distress ;  on  such  an  evening  this  jumble  of  small  objects  rose, 
like  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  threatened  to  throttle  her. 


402  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

A  fire  was  burning  and  only  the  upper  part  of  one  windo\y 
was  open.  Rachel  felt  that  she  was  in  real  peril  of  fainting ; 
that  she  had  never  done,  but  to-night  she  had  the  sensation 
that  at  any  moment  the  floor  with  its  old  faded  carpet  would 
rise  slanting  before  her  and  pitch  her  into  the  street.  Lady 
Carloes,  more  hunched  together  than  usual,  her  voice  thick 
and  husky  and  her  dress  of  blue  satin,  hurried  in.  Uncle 
Richard,  untouched  by  the  closeness  of  the  evening,  clean  and 
starched  and  dignified,  made  his  majestic  entry;  a  young 
man  from  the  Embassy,  so  beautifully  dressed  that  he  ap- 
peared to  have  spent  his  days  in  the  effort  to  make  his 
personality  of  less  importance  than  his  studs  and  his  waist- 
coat buttons,  apologized  from  behind  his  shining  collar  for 
being  the  last  of  the  party.  They  all  went  down  to  din- 
ner. 

Rachel  felt,  as  the  young  man  led  her  downstairs,  that  at 
last  she  knew  what  Panic  was.  Panic  was  the  state  of  stand- 
ing, surrounded  by  ordinary  everyday  things  and  people,  wait- 
ing for  the  bolt  to  fall,  the  enemy  to  advance,  danger  to 
spring,  but  seeing,  in  actual  vision,  nothing  to  justify  terror. 
She  had  reached  to-night  the  climax  of  months  of  alarm,  and, 
during  these  past  days,  unbroken  suspensa  She  was  at  the 
■ind  of  endurance.  ... 

How  was  she  ever  to  compass  this  horrible  meal?  The 
young  man  was  finding  her  difiicult.  She  was  aware  that 
Uncle  Richard  watched  her  and  was  expecting  her  to  sustain 
the  family  ease  and  dignity.  They  were  at  a  little  round 
table,  so  that  he  was  able  to  hear  all  the  conversation. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  desperately.  "  I  quite  agree  with  you. 
The  lack  of  enterprise  at  Covent  Garden  is  shameful.  We 
want  more  competition.  .  .  ." 

"  So  I  said  to  her,  '  My  good  woman,  if  you  really  imagine 
that  I'm  taken  in  by  your  pretending  that  that's  Dres- 
den' .  .  ." 

"  Herr  Becknet  is  coming  in  afterwards,"  old  Lady  Carloea 
said.     "  You'll  like  him,  my  dear.     He  plays  the  harp  too 


MARCH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  405 


wonderfully.  I've  asked  a  few  friends  to  come  in.  Of 
course  the  drawing-room  isn't  very  large,  but  I  hope " 

The  room  was  swimming  before  Rachel.  A  stuffed  bird 
in  a  glass  case  sailed  across  the  table  towards  her  and  the  fire- 
place tottered  and  staggered.  She  was  just  able  to  gasp: 
"  Lady  Carloes  —  please  —  it's  this  heat  or  something " 

There  were  cries  of  agitation.  The  young  man  gave  her 
his  arm  into  the  passage,  she  was  surrounded  by  anxious 
servants ;  someone  fanned  her,  she  drank  water  and  was  con- 
scious of  Lady  Carloes'  blue  satin  and  Uncle  Richard's  shirt- 
front. 

She  knew  now  what  she  wanted;  she  pulled  herself  to- 
gether and  absolutely  refused  Uncle  Richard's  escort. 

"  !N'o,  I  shall  be  quite  all  right  —  really.  'No,  Uncle  Rich- 
ard, I  won't  hear  of  it.  It  was  silly  of  me  to  come  out 
really.  I've  been  feeling  this  thundery  weather  all  day.  No, 
Lady  Carloes,  thank  you,  I'll  just  go  straight  back  and  go 
to  bed.  I  won't  hear  of  anyone  coming  with  me,  thanks. 
No,  really.  I  am  so  sorry,  Lady  Carloes.  I  shall  be  all  right 
in  the  morning.  Yes,  if  you'd  call  a  cab,  please.  No,  Uncle 
Richard,  I'd  rather  not." 

She  was  better.  She  knew  what  she  wanted.  At  last  the 
cab  was  there,  but  it  was  not  "  York  Terrace  "  that  she  had 
commanded,  but  "  24  Saxton  Square." 

It  was  Lizzie  whom  she  needed. 

rv 

It  was  a  long  drive  to  Saxton  Square.  She  was  better  now, 
but  still  strangely  unwell,  and  to  open  both  the  windows  was 
of  no  use:  not  a  breath  stirred,  the  trees,  dark  and  sombre, 
were  of  iron,  the  lamps  gave  no  radiance  and  the  sky  was 
black. 

She  was  terribly  frightened,  frightened  because  here  in  the 
dark  of  her  carriage,  thoughts  of  Breton  attacked  her  as  they 
had  never  done  before.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  burning 
hands;  her  body  was  shivering.     Breton  was  before  her  as 


404  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

lie  had  been  in  his  room.  She  felt  his  hands  about  her,  his 
breath  on  her  cheek,  his  mouth  was  pressed  against  hers,  her 
fingers  knew  again  the  stuff  of  his  coat  and  the  back  of  her 
hand  had  touched  his  neck.  .  .  . 

And  yet,  it  was  at  this  moment,  with  those  very  memories 
crowding  about  her,  that  she  knew  definitely  and  with  ab- 
solute assurance,  that  it  was  Eoddy,  and  Koddy  only  in  all 
the  world,  whom  she  now  loved. 

Her  passion  for  Breton  had  been  a  passion  of  rebellion,  of 
discontent  —  a  moment  perhaps  in  her  education  that  carried 
her  from  one  stage  to  another. 

She  loved  Eoddy.  She  could  not  trace  the  steps  by  which 
her  love  had  grown,  but  affection  had  first  been  changed  into 
something  stronger  on  that  day  when  he  had  been  carried 
back  into  his  house  from  whose  gates  he  had  passed,  that 
morning,  so  strong  and  sure.  Pity  had  been  the  beginning 
of  it,  admiration  of  his  courage  had  continued  it,  this  mo- 
ment of  this  stormy  night  had  struck  it  into  flame  — 

And  now,  perhaps,  in  another  day  or  so,  she  would  learn 
that  he  had  done  with  her  for  ever. 

She  sat  there,  huddled,  trembling,  her  eyes  burning,  her 
throat  dry. 

Oh!  why  wouldn't  the  carriage  go  faster!  If  only  this 
storm  would  come  and  that  terrible  sky  would  break !  She 
knew  that  Mrs.  Rand  and  Daisy  were  away  in  the  country 
and  Lizzie  went  out  very  seldom.  She  would  find  her.  She 
must  find  her.  She  shuddered  to  think  what  she  might  do 
were  Lizzie  not  at  home. 

They  were  there.  Yes,  Miss  Eand  was  at  home :  Rachel 
went  in. 

Lizzie  was  sitting  quietly  by  the  open  window,  reading. 
She  looked  up  and  saw  Rachel  in  a  dress  of  black  and  gold, 
her  face  very  pale,  as  she  stood  there  in  the  doorway. 

"  Lizzie  dear  —  Lizzie."  Rachel  flung  off  her  cloak,  stood 
for  a  moment  motionless,  then  without  another  word,  huddled 
Tip  on  to  the  sofa  and,  her  face  buried  in  her  arm,  began  to 


MAECH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  405 

cry.  Lizzie  came  across  to  her,  took  her  hand,  and  sat  there 
without  speaking. 

After  a  long  time  she  said,  "  Rachel  dear.     What  is  it  ?  " 

Rachel  clung  to  her,  holding  her  fiercely.  At  last,  looking 
up  but  away  from  Lizzie,  she  said,  "  Oh !  if  you  hadn't  been 
here.  I  don't  know  —  I  simply  don't  know  what  —  I  think 
it's  this  night  This  awful  night.  It's  so  close  and  the 
storm  is  so  long  coming." 

"  Has  anything  particular  happened  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  Duchess  has  told  Roddy  about  —  about  Fran- 
cis —  or  I  think  she  has.  Roddy's  said  nothing  to  me,  but  I 
ought  to  speak  to  him,  to  tell  him.  ,  .  .  I've  put  it  off." 

Lizzie  said  softly.  "You  must  tell  him,  Rachel.  You' 
know  that  you  must.  It's  the  only  thing.  I  thought  it 
would  come  to  that  sooner  or  later." 

"  But  it's  more  than  that.  I'm  not  well.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,  but  I've  never  felt  like  it  before,  and  it  makes  me 
more  frightened  than  I've  ever  been.  To-night  I've  been 
more  frightened." 

But  Lizzie  was  thinking. 

"  Has  your  grandmother  told  many  people  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  know  nothing ;  that's  what  makes  it 
so  hard.  It's  all  had  a  climax  to-night.  There  was  an  awful 
dinner  at  old  Lady  Carloes'  and  it  was  so  hot  and  stuffy  that 
I  nearly  fainted.  I  had  to  leave.  And  then,  coming 
here  .  .  ." 

Rachel  began  to  tremble  again  and,  creeping  close  to 
Lizzie,  she  held  her  tighter. 

"  Lizzie  ...  in  the  cab  coming  here  .  .  ,  Erancis  .  .  . 
I  had  such  thoughts.     I  couldn't  have  believed.  ..." 

Lizzie's  eyes  gazed  out  into  the  square,  far  away  —  not  like 
a  Pool  to-night,  Mr.  Breton.  All  hard  and  cruel  and  even  the 
Nymph  has  no  softness. 

She  kissed  Rachel.  "  It's  the  night,  dear.  When  the 
weather's  like  this  it  affects  one.  London's  awful  to-night. 
There'U  be  such  a  storm  soon." 


406  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

"  But  it's  worse,  Lizzie.  I  seem  to-niglit  to  have  seen  my- 
eeif  as  I  am  —  more  clearly  than  before.  My  priggishnesa 
■ —  talking  so  much  about  Truth  and  then  —  the  things  I  do. 
Roddy,  Francis,  all  the  same.  I've  treated  them  all  badly. 
I've  been  true  to  no  one.     I'm  no  good.  .  .  ." 

"  Promise  me,  dear,  that  you'll  tell  him  —  your  husband  — 
everything  —  to-morrow.     Promise  me." 

"  But  Lizzie,  perhaps " 

"  N'o  —  no  —  no.     Everything,     To-morrow." 

"  He'll  hate  me.     He'll " 

"  !N^o  matter.     You  must.     To-morrow." 

Rachel  was  silent.  Then  she  looked  into  Lizzie's  fac& 
"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  will." 

Then,  with  a  little  sigh,  she  fainted. 


When  she  rose  to  a  realization  of  life  again  she  was  lying 
upon  Lizzie's  bed  and  the  storm  had  broken  over  the  house. 
Lizzie  was  holding  her  hand ;  the  thunder  roared.  Coming 
with  stealthy  steps  closer  and  closer,  sometimes  to  creep 
stealthily  away  again,  sometimes  to  break,  with  crashing 
splendour,  upon  their  very  heads. 

The  lightning  flung  Lizzie's  bedroom  into  pale  brilliance 
and  was  gone;  Life  leapt  into  vision,  then  surrendered  to 
the  candle  flare,  then  leapt  again. 

Rachel  smiled  faintly.  She  felt  around  her  and  about  her 
a  great  peace.  She  knew  that  all  her  terror  had  departed; 
her  one  thought  now  was  to  return  to  Roddy  and  tell  him 
everything. 

She  sat  up.  "  How  silly  of  me  to  faint  It's  a  thing  I've 
never  done  in  my  life.     How  did  you  get  me  here  ?  " 

"  The  maid  and  I  carried  you  in.  It's  better  for  you  in 
here." 

"  I  think  I'll  go  now,  Lizzie  dear." 

"  Wait  a  little  while." 


MARCH  13TH:  RACHEL'S  HEART  407 

They  stayed  in  silence.  Then  they  heard  the  rain  that 
lashed  the  windows. 

"  Isn't  the  rain  terrific  ?  .  .  .  Oh  1  Lizzie,  it's  all  gone, 
all  the  terror,  all  that  awful  fright."  She  added  solemnly, 
"  I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  feel  like  that  again.  It'll  never 
come  back  —  I'm  sure  of  it." 

Rachel  sat  silently  for  a  moment,  then  turned  and  buried 
her  head  in  Lizzie's  dress. 

"  Lizzie  dear,  I've  been  so  frightened  —  of  something  else." 

"Of  what?" 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  child.  I've  known  it  for  some  time. 
At  first  I  wasn't  sure.  Then  I  knew.  I  was  frightened 
and  miserable.  Then,  as  with  every  day  I  seemed  to  grow 
fonder  and  fonder  of  Roddy  I  became  glad  about  it.  Then 
very  happy " 

"  Oh,  Rachel  dear,  I'm  so  glad!  " 

"  Yes.  But  now,  with  this,  about  Roddy  it's  all  dreadful 
again.  If  he  should  turn  on  me  now  just  when  I've  begun 
to  care." 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  her  eyes  staring,  her  hands  clutching  the 
clothes. 

"Lizzie,  if  it  should  come  right!  —  if  it  should!  Just 
think  what  a  child  would  mean  for  him ;  he's  so  brave,  lying 
there  all  day,  making  himself  amused  and  interested.  I 
watch  him  often  and  wonder  where  all  that  courage  comes 
from.  I  couldn't  have  done  it.  .  .  .  But  now,  if  the  child's 
a  boy,  he'll  be  able  to  put  all  his  old  strength  and  keenness 
into  him  —  and  the  Place !  Think  what  it  will  mean  to  him 
to  have  that !  " 

"  And  for  you  ?  "  asked  Lizzie. 

"  I  believe  it's  what  I've  wanted.  Oh !  if  only  things  are 
all  right  with  Roddy,  then  I  can  start  again  and  have  some 
decent  pride  about  it  all.  I've  made  such  a  mess  of  things 
80  far." 

They  talked  for  a  little.     Then  Rachel  got  up  and  dressed. 


408  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

"  I'm  all  right  now.  Everything  seems  to  have  cleared. 
I'll  tell  Roddy  everything  to-morrow,  Lizzie  dear." 

"  Come  and  see  me  as  soon  as  ever  you  can,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  will." 

Rachel  said  good  night.     She  held  Lizzie's  shoulders. 

"  Lizzie,  you're  wonderful.  Don't  think  I  don't  know  how 
wonderful  you  are.  I'll  never  forget  what  you've  been  to- 
night. And  if  it's  all  right  to-morrow.  Oh!  I  am  going 
to  be  happy." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Lizzie.  "  Don't  go  and  get  fright- 
ened again." 

"  I'll  never  be  so  frightened  as  I  was  to-night  —  never." 

"  I'm  afraid  you've  got  dreadfully  wet,"  she  said  to  the 
cabman. 

"  It  don't  matter,  mum  —  but  it  does  come  down." 

Lizzie  stood  in  the  doorway  and  waved  her  hand. 

The  rain  slashed  the  panes  and  whipped  the  shining  de- 
serted streets.  Very  far  away  the  faint  whisper  of  thunder 
Uade  the  town  farewelL 


CHAPTER  VI 

MARCH   13th:     RODDY  TALKS  TO  THE  DEVIL  AND  THE 
DUCHESS    DENIES    GOD 

"  '  Que  d6sirez-vou8  savoir  plus  pr6cis6ment  ?  * 
Mais  le  porte-drapeau   rfipondit: 
*Non,  pas  maintenant  .  .  .  apres  .  .  .'" 

A   I'ExtrSme  Limite. 
Abtztbachev. 


THAT  afternoon  had  been  a  difficult  one  for  Roddy.  He 
felt,  lying  so  eternally  on  his  back,  the  vagaries  of  the 
English  weather.  There  were  days  when  the  wind  was  in 
the  park,  when  sunshine  flashed  and  flung  shadows,  when 
the  water  of  the  pond  glittered  and  every  duck  and  baby 
thrilled  with  life.  Then  it  was  very  hard  to  lie  still,  and 
memories  of  days  —  riding  days  and  swimming  days  and 
hunting  days  —  would  persecute  him.  But  there  were  dark 
wet  hours  when  his  room  seemed  warm  and  cosy  —  then  he 
was  happy. 

On  a  day  of  thunder,  like  this  afternoon,  his  one  desire  was 
to  get  out ;  never  had  he  felt  the  bars  of  his  cage  so  sharply, 
with  so  intense  an  irritation  as  on  to-day. 

Massiter  broke  the  chain  of  his  thoughts  and  he  was  glad. 
Four  days  now  and  Rachel  had  said  nothing;  many  times 
he  had  thought  that  she  was  going  to  speak,  but  the  moments 
had  passed.  He  had  not  slept  for  two  nights  —  over  and  over 
he  turned  the  question  as  to  what  he  was  to  do. 

Had  he  been  up  and  about,  some  solution  would  have  nat- 
urally come,  he  thought,  but,  lying  here,  thinking  so  inter- 
minably with  one's  body  tied  to  one  like  a  stone,  nothing 
seemed  clear  or  easy. 

This  was  the  worst  day  in  the  world  to  make  thinking 

4oa 


410  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

simple.     The  leaden  sky  pressed  one  down  and  held  one's 
brain. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  jolly  bad  evenin',"  said  Roddy,  "  I 
know  I  am." 

Massiter  was  a  relief;  there  was  no  need  to  talk  whilst 
Massiter  was  there  and  his  fat  cheerful  body  restored  one's 
balance.  The  same,  sensible  world  that  had  once  been 
Roddy's  own  and  had,  of  late,  slipped  away  from  him,  was 
restored  when  Massiter  was  there,  l^evertheless  one  hour  of 
Massiter  was  enough.  Roddy  could  detect  in  Massiter's  at- 
titude that  pity  moved  him  to  additional  cheerfulness,  and 
this  was  irritating;  then  Massiter's  clumsy  efforts  to  avoid 
topics  that  might  be  especially  tactless  —  that  also  was  tire- 
some. 

Roddy  was  glad  when  Rachel  and  John  Beaminster  came 
down  and  relieved  him,  and  then  the  moment  arrived  when 
he  thought  again  that  Rachel  was  going  to  speak,  and  per- 
haps if  he  had  made  a  movement  of  affection  he  would  have 
caught  her,  but  always  when  some  expression  of  feeling  was 
especially  demanded  of  him  did  he  feel  the  least  able  to  pro- 
duce it. 

The  whole  relationship  between  them  depended  on  such 
slender  incidents;  one  word  from  anybody  and  there  would 
be  no  more  confusion  or  doubt;  the  situation  had  the  mad- 
dening tip-toe  indecision  of  a  dream. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  bad  time  to-night,"  he  thoughts 
"  It's  no  use  giving  in  to  the  thing."  He  faced  it  deliber- 
ately ;  if  only  he  could  think  clearly,  but  the  damned  weather. 
,  .  .  Well,  he  and  Jacob  must  face  the  night  as  best  they 
could. 

The  dog  lay  flat  near  the  window,  moving  restlessly  under 
the  close  air,  but  pricking  his  ears  at  every  movement  that 
Roddy  made,  ready  to  come  to  him  at  any  instant. 

"  That  old  dog  cares  for  me  more  than  anyone  else  does  — ■ 
and  I  only  appreciated  him  after  I  was  laid  up  —  Rummy 
thing !  "     Roddy  was  conscious  that  high  above  him,  some* 


RODDY  TALKS  TO  THE  DEVIL  411 

■where  near  the  ceiling,  hovered  a  Creature,  bom  of  this 
damnable  evening,  and  that  did  he  allow  himself  to  relax  for 
a  moment,  down  that  hovering  Creature  would  come.  Very 
faintly,  as  it  were  from  a  great  distance,  he  could  catch  its 
whisper  in  his  ear.  "  What's  the  good  of  this  ?  .  .  .  What's 
the  good  of  this  ?  What  did  you  always  say  ?  What  would 
you  have  said  about  anyone  placed  as  you  are  now  ?  Better 
for  him  to  get  out." 

"  Damn  you,  shut  up.  .  .  ." 

He  was  in  great  physical  pain,  the  pain  that  always  came 
to  him  when  he  was  tired  out,  but  that  was  nothing  to  the 
mental  torture.  Twisted  figures  —  Rachel,  Breton,  himself, 
the  Duchess  —  passed  before  him,  mingling,  separating, 
sometimes  coming  to  him  as  though  they  were  there  with 
him  in  the  room.  He  had  not,  even  on  the  day  that  had  told 
him  that  he  would  never  get  up  again,  felt  so  near  to  utter 
defeat  as  he  was  now.  He  had  been  proud  of  himself,  proud 
of  his  resistance  to  what,  with  another  man,  might  have  ap- 
peared utter  catastrophe,  proud  of  his  dogged  determination. 
"  To  have  the  devil  beat.  .  .  ."  To-night  this  same  devil 
was  going  to  be  too  much  for  him,  did  he  not  fight  his  very 
hardest,  and  the  cruelty  of  it  was  that  this  weather  took 
all  one's  vitality  out  of  one,  drained  one  dry,  left  one  a  rag. 

"  Curse  you,  get  out,"  he  muttered,  clenching  his  teeth, 
then  whistled  and  brought  Jacob  instantly  to  his  side.  The 
dog  jumped  on  to  the  long  sofa,  taking  care  not  to  touch  his 
master's  legs.  Then  he  moved  up  into  the  hollow  of  Roddy's 
arm  and  lay  there  warm  against  Roddy's  side. 

"  What's  the  use  ?  "  The  Creature  was  close  to  him,  his 
breath  warm  and  damp  like  the  night  air.  "  She  doesn't 
care  for  you.  You  can  see  that  she  doesn't.  She's  been  in 
love  with  her  cousin  for  ever  so  long,  only  you  didn't  know. 
Wouldn't  she  have  told  you  that  she  was  a  friend  of  his  if 
there  had  been  nothing  more  than  that  in  it  ?  What  a  fool 
you  are  —  lying  here  all  broken  up,  simply  in  the  way  of  her 
happiness,  no  good  to  yourself  or  anyone  else." 


412  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

*'  I  wish  the  thunder  would  come  and  smash  you  up.  .  .  ,*' 
Then,  more  desperately,  "  What  if  that's  right  ?  if  I  were  to 
clear  out  .  .  ." 

"  After  all,"  said  the  Creature,  "  you've  never  before  seen 
yourself  as  you  really  are.  You  thought  that  you  were  all 
right  because  you  could  use  your  legs  and  arms.  Kow  you 
know  what  you  are  —  You're  nothing  —  only  something  that 
many  people  must  trouble  to  keep  alive  —  useless  —  useless  I 
Why  not  ?  " 

Yes,  Koddy  did  see  himself  to-night,  sternly;  as  in  the 
old  days  he  might  have  looked  upon  someone  and  judged 
him  unfit,  so  now  he  would  confront  himself.  "  It's  quite 
true.  You've  got  nothing  —  nothing  to  show,  you've  no  in- 
tellect, you're  selfish,  you  despise  all  kinds  of  people  for  all 
kinds  of  reasons.  You've  stood  a  little  pain  —  so  can  any 
man.     You'd  better  get  out  —  no  one  will  know." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Creature,  very  close  to  him  now.  "  You 
can  do  it  so  easily.  That  morphia  that  you've  had  once  or 
twice  —  an  overdose.  No  one  would  suppose.  .  .  .  She 
would  never  know,  and  you'd  be  rid  for  ever  of  all  this  wrong 
and  you'd  free  so  many  people  from  so  much  trouble." 

"  Jacob,  my  son,"  he  whispered,  "  do  you  hear  what  they're 
saying  ?  " 

He  went  right  down,  down,  to  the  depths  of  a  pit  that 
closed  about  his  head,  filled  his  eyes  with  darkness,  was  suf- 
focating. 

"  Yes,  he's  beaten,"  he  heard  them  say.  "  We've  succeeded 
at  last.     We've  succeeded.  .  .  ." 

But  they  had  not. 

With  an  effort  of  will  that  was  beyond  any  power  that  he 
had  believed  himself  to  possess,  he  pulled  himself  up. 

"  There's  one  thing  you've  forgotten."  He  gasped  as  he 
came  struggling  up. 

He  took  the  Creature  in  his  hands,  wrung  its  neck  and 
flung  it  out  of  the  window. 

"  There's  one  thing  you've  forgotten.     There's  my  love  for 


EODDY  TALKS  TO  THE  DEVIL  413 

her.  That's  strong  enough  for  anything.  That's  reason 
enough  for  living  even  though  she  doesn't  want  it.  I'll  beat 
you  all  with  that  ...  go  back  to  hell,  the  lot  of  you." 

n 

"  I  must  never  let  it  happen  like  that  again.  What  a  state 
this  weather  can  get  one  into.  .  .  ." 

But  he  had  come  back  to  his  senses.  His  brain  was  clear; 
he  could  think  now.  The  great  point  was  that  it  was  of  no 
use  to  think  of  himself  in  this  affair.  "  Rachel,  Rachel's 
the  only  thing  that  matters." 

Then  upon  that  came  the  decision.  "  That  old  woman's 
got  to  pay  for  it.  She's  been  wantin'  to  give  Rachel  a  bad 
time.  She's  tried  to.  Her  mouth's  got  to  be  stopped  Jiotxr- 
ever  old  and  ill  she  is !  " 

He  was  fiercely,  furiously  indignant  with  her  —  vanished, 
it  appeared,  all  his  affection,  the  sentiment  of  years.  "  I've 
got  to  defend  Rachel  from  her,  no  knowin'  wliom  she's  been 
tellin'."  Roddy  still  found  it  impossible  to  admit  more  than 
one  idea  at  a  time,  and  the  idea  now  was  that  "  he  must  stop 
the  old  lady  dead." 

His  brain  came  round  now  to  Breton,  and  halted  therek 
What  kind  of  fellow,  after*  all,  was  he  ?  What,  after  all,  did 
Roddy  know  about  him  that  he  could  so  easily  condemn  him  % 

To-night,  fresh  from  the  battle  with  the  Creature,  Roddy's 
view  of  the  world  was  painted  with  new  colours.  The  man 
had  been  condemned  for  things  that  his  father  had  done,  and 
one  recognized,  here  in  London,  how  difficult  it  was  for  a 
fellow  to  climb  up  once  he  had  been  pushed  down. 

Was  the  man  in  love  with  Rachel  ?  Well,  Roddy  did  not 
know  that  he  could  blame  him  for  that?  .  .  .  difficult 
enough,  surely,  for  anyone  not  to  be.  But  was  he  ?  What, 
after  all,  was  he  like? 

Then  swiftly  the  answer  came  to  him.  See  the  man.  .  .  . 
Talk  to  him  .  .  .  know  him.  He  stared  at  the  idea,  felt 
already  new  energy  in  his  bones  and  a  surging  victory  over 


414  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

the  lethargy  of  this  awful  evening  at  the  suggestion  of  some 
definite  action. 

But  see  him,  yes,  and  see  him  here  and  see  him  soon.  His 
impatience  leapt  now  hotly  upon  him;  he  pulled  Jacob's 
ears.  "  That's  the  ticket,  old  boy,  ain't  it  ?  See  what  kind 
of  a  ruffian  this  is!  My  word,  but  wouldn't  the  old  lady 
hate  it  if  she  knew  ?  " 

But,  and  at  this  the  room  flared  with  the  thrill  of  it,  why 
not  have  her  here  to  meet  him  ?     Confront  her  with  him. 

He  was  cool  now.  Here  was  matter  that  needed  careful 
handling.  Still  as  vigorous  now  as  in  his  most  active  days 
was  his  impatience.  Was  something  in  the  way,  cobwebs, 
barriers,  obstacles  of  any  sort  ?  Brush  them  aside,  beat  them 
down! 

Here  was  a  plan.  Here,  too,  most  happily  at  hand,  was  the 
Duchess's  punishment. 

All  these  years  had  the  old  lady  been  refusing  to  set  eyes 
upon  her  grandson,  therefore,  how  dramatic  would  it  be  were 
she  confronted  with  him  unexpectedly.  Out  of  the  hea  t  «f 
that  meeting  would  come  most  assuredly  the  truth  about 
Rachel. 

There,  in  a  flash,  solid,  substantial,  beautifully  compact, 
magnificently  splendid  his  plan  lay  before  him.  He  would 
have  them  there.  Rachel,  the  Duchess,  this  Breton,  all  of 
them  there  before  him.  They  should  come  ignorant,  unpre- 
pared, Breton  first,  then  Rachel,  then  the  Duchess. 

Having  them  there  he  would  quite  simply  say  that  some- 
one had  been  pouring  into  his  ears  a  story  of  friendship  to 
which  he  might  take  objection. 

He  would  then,  very  quietly  .  .  .  But  here  he  paused. 
Oh !  he  knew  what  he  would  do.  He  smiled  at  the  thought 
of  the  success  of  his  plan. 

When  he  had  made  his  little  speech  to  them  all  there  would 
never  again  be  any  danger  of  scandal.  The  old  lady  would 
never  again  have  any  single  word  to  say. 

The  thought  that  Rachel  might  be  angry  at  his  deceptive 


RODDY  TALKS  TO  THE  DEVIL     415 

plot  did  not  disturb  him.  When  she  had  heard  his  little 
speech  she  would  not  say  that  —  and  here,  suddenly,  he  knew 
how  deeply,  in  his  heart,  he  trusted  her. 

But  what  if,  after  all,  it  should  be  a  lie  on  the  old  lady's 
part  ?  Was  he  not  doing  wrong  to  take  things  so  far  without 
a  question  to  anyone  else,  Christopher  or  Lizzie  Eand  ? 

But  this  was  Eoddy.  Here  both  his  pride  and  his  im- 
patience were  concerned.  He  did  not  wish  that  the  business 
should  pass  beyond  its  present  bounds.  He  could  not  go  from 
person  to  person  asking  them  whether  they  trusted  his  wife. 
And  then  he  could  not  wait.  Here  was  a  plan  that  killed  the 
danger  at  one  blow,  something  direct,  open,  with  sharply 
defined  issues.     Oh !  Eachel  should  see  how  he  loved  her ! 

"  All  these  days,"  he  said  to  Jacob,  "  I've  been  worryin' 
about  her,  but  I  knew  —  yes,  I  knew  —  that  she  was  comin' 
to  me  all  right."  He  thought  of  a  day  long  before  and  of  Miss 
Nita  Raseley  and  of  a  meeting  in  the  garden.  "  I'll  show  her 
that  I  can  forgive,  too,  if  it's  necessary.  !N^ot  because  I  care 
so  little,  but,  by  God,  because  I  care  so  much.  No,"  he 
thought,  shaking  his  head  over  it,  "  she  doesn't  love  me,  not 
yet.     But  she's  beginnin'  to  belong  to  me.     She's  coming." 

There  was  also  the  thought  that  the  Duchess  was  an  old, 
sick  woman  and  that  the  scene  might  be  too  much  for  her 
strength.  "  Not  she,"  he  grimly  decided,  "  that's  the  kind  of 
thing  she  lives  on.  Anyway,  I  owe  her  one.  Didn't  do  her 
any  harm  comin'  to  me  the  other  day,  won't  do  her  any  harm 
now.     /  know  her." 

His  scheme  must  be  carried  out  at  once.  He  felt  that  he 
could  not  wait  a  moment.  He  would  have  liked  to  have  had 
them  all  there,  before  him,  to-night. 

"  Why,  by  this  time  to-morrow,  old  boy,  it  will  all  be 
straight.  Thank  God,  my  brain  cleared,  in  spite  of  this 
damn  weather." 

He  rang  the  bell  and  Peters,  large,  solemn,  but  bending  a 
loving  eye  upon  his  master,  appeared. 

"  Writing  things,  Peters." 


410  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

He  wrote  swiftly  two  notes. 

"  Very  close  to-night,  sir." 

"  Yes,  Peters,  very." 

"  You're  looking  better,  sir  .  .  .  less  tired.  Your  dinner 
will  be  up  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  iNice  omelette,  nice  little 
bird,  nice  fruit  salad,  sardines  on  toast." 

"  Thank  you,  Peters,  I'm  hungry  as  —  as  anything." 

"  Very  glad  to  hear  it,  sir." 

"  I  want  these  two  notes  sent  by  hand  instantly,  do  you 
see?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Rod'ricL" 

"  At  once." 

«  Yes,  Sir  Rod'rick." 

Roddy  lay  back  and  surveyed  the  black  sky. 

"  ]!^asty  storm  comin'  up  —  look  here,  Peters,  give  me  that 
bird  book  over  there.     That  big  one.     Thanks." 

Peters  retired. 

in 

Meanwhile  Her  Grace  had  found  this  close  evening  very 
trying.  That  visit  to  Roddy  had  not  harmed  her  physically, 
but  had  made  her  restless.  The  very  fact  that  it  had  not 
hurt  her,  urged  her  to  have  more  of  such  evenings.  Having 
shown  them  once  what  she  could  do  she  would  like  to  show 
them  all  again,  and  yet  with  this  new  energy  was  also  lethargy 
so  that  she  sat,  thinking  about  her  adventures,  but  felt  that 
it  would  be  difficult  to  move. 

Then  this  thundery  afternoon  really  did  drag  the  strength 
from  her.  She  allowed  her  fire  to  fall  into  a  few  golden  coals, 
she  allowed  Dorchester  to  move  her  from  her  high-back  chair 
on  to  a  sofa  that  was  near  the  wide  window,  now  flung  open. 
She  could  see  roofs,  chimneys,  towers  of  churches,  all  dingy 
grey  beneath  the  leaden  sky. 

She  lay  there,  a  book  on  her  lap,  but  not  reading ;  she  was 
thinking  of  Roddy.  For  perhaps  the  very  first  time  in  all  her 
life  she  regretted  something  that  she  had  done.     Nobody  but 


RODDY"  TALKS  TO  THE  DEVIL  417 

Eoddy  could  have  called  this  regret  out  of  her  and  now,  she 
would  confess  it  to  no  living  soul,  but  she  lay  there,  thinking 
about  it,  remembering  every  movement  and  gesture  of  his, 
seeing  always  that,  at  the  end,  he  had  wanted  her  to  go,  had, 
as  her  sharp  old  eyes  had  seen,  hurried  her  away. 

There  had  been  so  splendid  a  chance,  she  had  shown  her 
love  for  him  so  magnificently  that  he  could  not  but  have 
been  touched  and  moved  had  she  only  left  Eachel  alone. 
Ah !  that  girl !  again,  again.  .  ,  .  The  Duchess  looked  at  the 
plain  roofs  that  lay  dry  and  sterile  beneath  the  torrid  sky 
and  wished,  not  by  any  means  for  the  first  time,  that  she  had 
left  that  marriage  with  Eoddy  alone. 

Roddy  would  have  married  some  other  girl,  Kita  Raseley 
or  such,  and  he  would  have  been  mine  .  .  .  mine ! 

Hard  and  utterly  selfish  in  all  her  ordinary  dealings  with  a 
world  that  she  professed  to  despise  but  really  adored,  her  love 
for  Roddy  was  a  little  golden  link  to  a  thousand  softnesses 
and,  as  she  termed  them,  weak  indulgences.  Why  had  she 
loved  him  so?  She  was  like  the  grim  pirate  of  some  con- 
ventional fiction.  See  him  on  his  dark  vessel  surveying  with 
cold  and  cruel  eye  the  beautiful  captives  provided  by  the 
stricken  ship,  on  every  side  of  him  I  See  him  select,  for  the 
very  flavour  that  the  contrast  gave  him,  some  ordinary  slave 
from  the  crowd  to  whom  he  shows  weak  indulgence!  So 
much  blacker,  he  feels,  does  this  kindness  make  his  infamies. 

But  the  Duchess's  career  as  the  dark  pirate  of  her  period 
was  swiftly  vanishing ;  the  black  hulk  of  her  vessel  remained, 
but  upon  its  boards  only  the  little  slave  was  to  be  seen,  and 
even  he,  with  furtive  eye,  sought  his  way  of  escape. 

Yes,  on  this  torrid  evening  every  soul  in  that  vast  city, 
surely,  felt  that  he  was  alone,  abandoned,  in  a  desert  of  a 
world '  But  the  fear  that  she  was  losing  even  Roddy  brought 
the  Duchess  very  close  to  panic.  She  had  not  grasped  before 
how  resolutely  she  had  been  using  him  to  bolster  up  life  for 
her,  how  important  his  friendly  existence  was  for  her. 

Since  his  marriage  that  friendliness  had  grown,  with  every 


418  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

hour,  weaker.  Something  she  must  do  now  to  repair  her  error 
of  the  other  day;  she  was  even  ready  to  pretend  affection 
for  her  granddaughter  if  that  would  bring  Roddy  back  to  her. 

She  watched  the  sky  and  longed  for  the  threatened  storm  to 
"break ;  her  bones  were  indeed  old  and  feeble  to-day,  to  move 
at  all  was  an  effort  and,  with  it  all,  there  was  a  sense  of  appre- 
hension as  though  she  were  some  terrified  bird  conscious  of 
the  hawk's  approach,  she  who  had,  until  now,  been  herself 
the  hawk.  She  remembered  the  day  when  she  had  realized 
more  poignantly  than  ever  before,  that  the  hour  must  come 
■ —  and  indeed  was  not  far  away  —  when  she  would  inevitably 
meet  death.  She  had  loathed  that  realization,  attempted 
to  defy  it,  been  defeated  by  it.  'Now  on  this  evening,  she 
suspected  again  the  invasion  of  that  same  power.  But  to- 
night there  was  no  resistance  in  her,  she  lay  there,  whitely 
submitting  to  the  tyranny  of  any  enemy.  She  could  scarcely 
breathe;  London,  like  a  scaly  dragon,  flung  its  hot  breath 
upon  her  and  withered  her  defiance.  She  would  have  moved 
away  from  the  window  had  not  those  grey  roofs  held  her,  by 
their  ugly  indifference,  with  a  terrible  fascination.  "  I'm 
going  —  I'm  going  —  and  they  don't  care.  Just  like  that  — 
just  like  that  —  long  after  I'm  gone.'' 

The  evening  slipped  away  and  Dorchester,  coming  to 
her,  thought  that  she  was  sleeping;  she  did  not  disturb  her, 
but  ordered  her  evening  meal  to  be  kept  until  she  should 
wake. 

The  Duchess  did  sleep.  She  awoke  to  find,  in  the  sky  above 
the  now  vanishing  roofs,  a  golden  glow  and  in  the  room 
behind  her  the  shaded  lamps,  the  fire  burning,  and  her  table 
spread. 

But  she  had  had  a  horrible  dream ;  she  struggled  to  recall  it 
and,  even  as  she  struggled,  trembling  seized  her  body  as  the 
vague  horror  that  it  had  left  behind  it  still  thrilled  and 
troubled  her. 

She  could  recollect  nothing  of  her  dream  except  this,  that 
she  had  died,  and  that  being  dead,  she  was  immediately  aware 


RODDY  TALKS  TO  THE  DEVIL  419 

that  God  awaited  her.  She  could  remember  her  frantic  effort 
to  reassert  all  those  earthly  convictions  that  had  been  based 
on  the  definite  creed  that  the  Duchess  existed  but  not  God. 
She  had  still  with  her  the  sensation  of  hurry  and  dismay, 
the  dismal  knowledge  that  she  had  only  a  moment  with  which 
to  break  down  the  discoveries  of  a  lifetime  and  place  new  ones 
in  their  stead. 

She  had,  above  all,  the  horrible  knowledge  that  her  punish- 
ment was  settled,  that  at  last  she  was  in  the  hands  of  a  power 
stronger  than  herself  and  that  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  could 
help  her. 

She  was  frightened,  but  she  knew  not  by  what  or  by  whom. 
She  tried  to  tell  herself  that  she  had  been  dreaming,  that 
this  breathless  evening  was  responsible,  that  she  would  be  all 
right  very  soon.  But  she  was  seized  by  that  terrible  vague 
uncertainty  that  had  been  with  her  so  much  lately,  uncertainty 
as  to  what  was  real  and  what  was  not.  She  looked  at  the 
French  novel  lying  upon  her  lap ;  that  was  real,  she  supposed, 
and  yet  as  she  touched  its  pages  her  fingers  seemed  to  seize 
upon  nothing,  only  air  between  them. 

The  fits  of  trembling  shook  her  from  head  to  foot  and  yet 
she  could  scarcely  breathe,  so  close  and  heavy  was  the  night. 

"  That  was  only  a  dream  —  only  a  dream.  Suppose  it 
should  be  true  though.     What  if  I  were  to  die  —  to-night  ?  " 

Dorchester  came  to  her  and  was  alarmed. 

"  Dinner  is  ready.  Your  Grace." 

Her  mistress  did  not  answer,  but  lay  there,  looking 
through  the  open  window  and  shivering. 

"  Your  Grace  will  catch  cold  by  that  open  window.  I  had 
better  close  it." 

"  It's  stifling  —  stifling." 

"  Will  you  have  dinner  now  ?  " 

"  No  —  no.     Why  do  you  worry  me  ?     I  can  eat  nothing." 

Dorchester  was  seriously  alarmed;  an  evening  like  this 
might  very  easily  .  .  .  She  determined  to  send  word  round 
to  Dr.  Christopher. 


420  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

She  went  away,  gave  directions  about  the  dinner,  saw  that 
her  mistress's  bedroom  was  warm  and  comfortable. 

She  came  back.  The  Duchess  was  sitting  up,  colour  in 
her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  sparkling.     On  her  lap  lay  a  note. 

"  I've  had  a  dream,  Dorchester  —  a  horrid  dream.  I  was 
disturbed  for  a  moment.  I  think  I  will  eat  something  after 
all." 

"  The  way  she  goes  up  and  down ! "  thought  Dorchester. 
"  Must  say  I  don't  like  the  look  of  her  —  not  knowing  her  own 
mind,  so  unlike  her  —  Who's  the  letter  from,  I  wonder  ?  " 

It  was  the  letter,  plainly,  that  had  done  it.  Sitting  up  and 
enjoying  her  soup,  forgetting  that  black  sky  and  the  Dragon's 
scaly  menace,  the  Duchess  knew  that  that  dream  —  that 
dream  about  God  —  had  been  as  silly,  as  futile  as  dreams 
always  are. 

The  note,  brought  to  her  by  !N"orris  and  lying  now  beside 
her  plate,  had  told  her  so.  The  note  of  course  had  been  from 
Koddy.     It  said: 

"  Dear  Duchess, 

I  don't  want  to  ask  anything  impossible  of  you,  but, 
encouraged  by  your  coming  to  me  the  other  day  and  hear- 
ing that  you  took  no  harm  from  your  expedition,  I  am 
wondering  whether  to-morrow  afternoon  about  five  you 
could  come  again  and  have  tea  with  me.  There  is  some- 
thing about  which  you  can  help  me  —  only  you  in  all  th© 
world.  If  I  don't  hear  from  you  I  will  conclude  that  you 
ean  come  —  five  o'clock. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

EODDY." 

That  letter  showed  the  perfection  of  his  tactful  understand- 
ing. 

ISTo  absurd  talk  about  her  age,  her  feebleness,  the  weather, 
but  simply  it  was  taken  for  granted  that  of  course  she  would 
be  there.     Well,  of  course,  she  would  be  there  —  nothing 


RODDY  TALKS  TO  THE  DEVIL  421 

should  stop  her.  She  was  aware  that  Christopher,  hearing 
that  to-night  she  had  not  been  so  well,  would  certainly  forbid 
her  to  move.  He  should,  therefore,  know  nothing  about  it, 
nothing  at  all.  His  visit  would  be  paid  in  the  morning  —  she 
would  have  the  afternoon  to  herself  —  !N"orris  and  Dorchester 
should  help  her  to  the  carriage. 

Christopher  expected,  on  his  arrival,  to  find  her  in  a  very 
bad  way,  exhausted  by  the  closeness  of  the  evening:  it  was 
possible  that  he  might  have  to  remain  all  night.  He  found 
her  in  bed,  a  lace  cap  on  her  head,  a  crimson  dressing-gown 
about  her  shoulders,  and  all  her  rings  glittering  upon  her 
fingers.  An  old-fashioned  massive  silver  candlestick  with 
six  branches  illuminated  the  lacquer  bed,  the  black  Indian 
chairs,  the  fantastic  wall-paper.  The  windows  were  closed! 
and  the  dry  heat  of  the  room  was  appalling. 

She  was  in  her  mildest,  most  amiable  mood,  had  enjoyed 
an  excellent  dinner,  laughed  her  cracked,  discordant  laugh, 
was  delighted  to  see  him. 

"  Sit  down,  there,  close  to  me.     Have  some  coffee." 

"  ISTo,  thank  you." 

"  Dorchester  can  bring  it  in  a  minute." 

"  No,  really,  thank  you." 

"  Who  sent  for  you  ?  " 

"  Lord  John." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  so.  Pretty  state  of  things  with  them  all 
tanging  round  like  this  waiting  for  me  to  die  —  never  felt 
better  in  my  life." 

"  So  I  see  —  delighted.     I'll  go." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Stay  and  talk.  I  feel  like  telling  some- 
one what  I  think  of  things,  although  youVe  heard  it  all  often 
enough  before.  But  the  truth  is,  Christopher,  I  did  have  a 
nasty  dream  —  a  very  nasty  dream  —  and  the  nastiest  part 
of  it  was  that  I  couldn't  remember  it  when  I  woke  up. 

"  But  it's  the  weather  —  I  was  frightened  for  a  minute 
although  I  wouldn't  have  anyone  else  know." 

"  But  you  had  a  good  dinner." 


422  THE  DUCHESS  01  WREXE 

"  Splendid  dinner,  thank  you." 

She  lay  back  in  bed  and  looked  at  him;  delightful  to  think 
that  she  would  play  a  little  game  with  him  to-morrow;  he 
would  in  all  probability  be  angry  when  he  knew  —  that  would 
be  very  amusing;  delightful,  too,  to  think  that,  just  when 
she  was  afraid  that  she  had  seriously  alienated  Roddy  away 
from  her,  he  should  writ©  and  say  that  he  needed  her.  She 
would  go  to-morrow  and  would  be  exceedingly  ;olea8ant  to 
him  and  would  reassure  him  about  Rachel.  .  .  . 

Yes,  she  had  seldom  felt  so  genial.  She  told  Christopher 
stories  of  men  and  women  whom  she  had  known,  wicked 
stories,  gay  stories,  cruel  stories,  and  her  eyes  twinkled  and 
her  fingers  sparkled  and  her  old  withered  face  poked  out 
above  the  dressing-gown,  with  the  white  hair,  fine  and  proud 
beneath  the  lace  cap. 

Once  she  said  to  him :  "  You  think  all  this  queer,  don't 
you  ?  "  waving  her  hand  at  the  bed,  the  chairs,  the  paper. 
*'  This  colour  and  the  odds  and  ends  and  the  rest." 

"  It's  part  of  you,"  he  said ;  "  I  shouldn't  know  you 
without  them." 

"  I  love  them,"  she  breathed.  "  I  love  them.  Oh !  if  I'd 
had  my  way  I'd  have  been  bom  when  one  could  have  piled 
up  and  splashed  it  about  and  had  it  everywhere  —  jewels, 
clothes,  processions  —  Ah !  that's  why  I  hate  this  generation 
that's  coming ;  the  generation  that  you  believe  in  oo  devoutly, 
it's  so  ugly.  It  wears  ugly  things,  it  likes  ugly  people,  it 
believes  in  talking  about  ugly  morals  and  making  ugly 
laws.  .  .  ."  Then  she  laughed  — "  It's  funny,  isn't  it  ?  I 
had  to  use  the  age  I  was  born  into,  I  cut  my  cloth  to  it,  but 
what  a  figure  I'd  have  made  in  any  century  before  the  nine- 
teenth. All  the  old  times  were  best.  You  could  command 
and  see  that  you  were  obeyed.  .  .  .  None  of  your  Individu- 
alism then,  Christopher." 

She  was  silent  for  a  time  and  he  said  nothing.  He  was 
thinking  about  Breton,  wondering  where  he  was,  feeling  that 
he  should  not  have  let  him  go.     She  said  suddenly : 


RODDY  TALKS  TO  THE  DEVIL  423 

"  Christopher,  do  you  think  there's  a  God  ?  " 

"  I  know  there  is." 

"  "Well,  I  know  there  isn't  —  so  there  we  are.  One  of  us 
will  find  that  we've  made  a  mistake  in  a  few  years'  time." 

He  said  nothing.     At  last  she  began  again : 

"You're  sure  of  it?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  So  like  you  —  and  you  get  a  deal  of  comfort  from  it,  no 
doubt.     But  what  kind  of  a  God,  Christopher  ?  " 

"  A  just  God  —  a  loving  God." 

"  How  any  doctor  can  say  that  truthfully !  The  pain,  the 
crime  you  must  have  seen " 

"  Exactly.  I've  known,  I  suppose,  of  as  much  misery,  as 
much  agony,  as  much  wickedness  as  most  men  in  a  lifetime. 
I've  never  had  a  case  under  my  notice  that  hasn't  shown  the 
necessity  for  pain,  the  necessity  for  struggle,  for  defeat,  for 
disaster.  If  this  life  were  all,  still  I  should  have  had  proof 
enough  that  a  loving  God  was  moving  in  the  world." 

She  lay  back,  smiling  at  him. 

"  You're  a  sentimentalist  of  course.  I've  heard  you  talk 
before.  You're  wrong,  Christopher,  badly  wrong.  I  shall 
prove  it  before  you  will." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  smiling  back  at  her,  "  we'll  see." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you're  a  sentimentalist  of  the  very  worst  —  I 
don't  know  that  I  like  you  the  less  for  it.  I'm  an  old  pagan 
and  it's  served  me  all  my  life.     Ah !  there's  the  thunder !  " 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  her  cap  pushed  back,  her  skinny  arms 
stretched  out  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy.  "  There !  That's  it ! 
That's  the  kind  of  thing  I  like !  There's  your  God  for  you, 
Christopher." 

A  flash  of  lightning  flung  the  room  into  unreality. 

"  I'd  hoped  for  one  more  good  storm  before  I  went.  I've 
been  waiting  all  day  for  this." 

He  never  forgot  the  strange  figure  that  she  made;  she  dis- 
played the  excitement  of  a  child  presented  with  a  sudden 
unexpected  gift. 


424  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

He  himself  had  known  many  storms,  but,  perhaps  because 
she  now  made  so  strange  a  central  figure  of  this  one,  this 
always  remained  with  him  as  the  worst  of  his  life.  He  had 
never  heard  such  thunder  and,  as  each  crash  fell  upon  them, 
he  felt  that  she  rose  to  it  and  exulted  in  it  as  though  she  were 
a  swimmer  meeting  great  ocean  rollers. 

There  was  at  last  a  peal  that  broke  upon  them  as  though  it 
had  tumbled  the  whole  house  about  their  ears.  Deafened  by 
it  he  looked  about  him  as  though  he  had  expected  to  find 
everything  in  the  room  shattered. 

"  That  was  the  best,"  she  cried  to  him. 

At  last  she  lay  back  tired,  and  he  bade  her  good  night. 

She  held  his  hand  for  a  moment.  "  I  regret  nothing,"  she 
said,  "  nothing  at  all.     I've  had  a  good  time." 

But,  after  he  had  left  her,  the  sound  of  the  rain  had  some 
personal  fury  about  it  that  made  her  uneasy. 

She  called  to  Dorchester.  "  I  think  I'd  like  you  to  sleep 
here  to-night,  Dorchester.     I  may  need  you." 

"  Very  well.  Your  Grace." 

"After  all,"  she  thought  as,  the  candles  blown  out,  she 
lay  and  listened  to  the  rain,  "  that  dream  may  come 
back.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  Vn 

CHAMBER  MUSIC— A  TRIO 

**A  place  may  abound  in  its  own  sense,  as  the  phrase  is,  without 
bristling  in  the  least." — The  American  Scene. 

Heitby  James. 


THE  storm  savagely  retreating  left  blue  skies,  spring, 
and  the  greenest  grass  the  parks  had  ever  displayed, 
behind  it.  Roddy,  lying  before  his  window,  watched  the 
pond,  gleaming  like  blue  grass  but  crisped  by  the  breeze  into 
a  thousand  ripples.  Two  babies  ran,  tumbled,  screamed  and 
shouted,  and  all  the  many-coloured  ducks,  the  ducks  with  red 
bills,  the  ducks  with  draggled  feathers,  the  ducks  in  grey  and 
brown,  chattered  beneath  the  sun. 

By  midday  a  note  had  arrived  from  Breton  saying  that  he 
would  be  with  Roddy  at  half-past  four;  there  was  no  word 
from  the  Duchess.  He  knew  therefore  that  his  plan  had 
prospered.  But,  with  those  morning  reflections  that  freeze 
so  remorselessly  the  hot  decisions  of  the  night  before,  he  was 
afraid  of  what  he  had  done ;  he  was  afraid  of  Rachel. 

He  was  afraid  of  Rachel  because  he  recognized,  now  that 
he  was  on  the  brink  of  this  plunge,  how  much  deeper  and 
more  dangerous  it  might  be  for  him  than  he  had  thought. 
During  these  last  months  he  had  been  slowly  capturing 
Rachel ;  that  capture  was  the  one  ambition  and  desire  of  his 
life. 

But  in  the  very  intensity  and  ardour  of  his  desire  he  had 
learnt  more  surely  than  ever  the  strange  contradictions  that 
made  her  character.  His  accident  had  increased  his  own  age 
and  so  emphasized  her  youth;  she  was  ever  so  young,  ever 
so  impulsive;  her  seriousness  was  the  seriousness  of  some 
very  youthful  spirit,  who,  guessing  at  the  terrific  difficulty  of 

425 


426  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

life,  feels  that  the  only  way  to  surmount  it  is  to  close  eyes 
blindly  and  leap  over  the  whole  of  it  at  once.  This  was  what 
he  knew  in  his  heart  —  although  he  would  never  have  put  it 
into  words  —  as  her  adorable  priggishness. 

She  had  found  her  solution  and  everythmg  must  fit  into 
it,  but,  since  she  had  finally  resolved  it,  nothing  would  fit 
into  it  at  all  —  and  there  was  the  whole  of  Rachel's  young 
history ! 

To  Roddy  one  thing  manifest  was  that  a  very  tiny  blunder 
might  shatter  the  bond  that  was  forming  between  them,  and 
it  was  eloquent  of  a  great  deal  that,  whereas  before  in  the 
Nita  Raseley  episode,  it  had  been  Rachel  who  feared  the  one 
false  step,  it  was  now  Roddy.  What  it  came  to  was  that,  in 
spite  of  everything,  he  was  still  unable  to  prophesy  about 
her.  She  was  siill  unrealized,  almost  untouched  by  him,  that 
was  partly  why  he  loved  her  so. 

Roddy's  brain  had  been  alive  last  night  and  ready  to 
grapple  with  anything;  to-day  he  felt  stupid  and  confused. 
"  We're  in  for  a  jolly  good  row,"  he  thought,  "  far  as  I  can 
see.  There's  no  avoidin'  it.  Anyway,  some  clearin'  up  will 
come  out  of  all  of  it." 

So  intent  was  he  upon  Rachel  that  he  scarcely  considered 
the  Duchess.  He  had  not  very  much  imagination  about 
people  and  made  the  English  mistake  of  believing  that  every- 
one else  saw  life  as  he  did.  He  had,  for  that  very  reason, 
never  believed  very  seriously  in  the  Duchess's  passion  for 
himself;  he  liked  her  indeed  for  her  hardness  and  resented 
any  appearance  of  the  gentler  emotions  — "  She'll  like  tellin' 
us  all  what  she  thinks  of  it " —  placed  her  in  the  afternoon's 
battle.  He  might  have  taken  it  all,  had  he  chosen,  as  the 
most  curious  circumstance,  that  he  should  be  "  arranging 
things  " —  eloquent  of  the  changed  order  of  his  life  and  of  the 
new  man  that  he  was  becoming. 

He  lay  there  all  the  morning,  nervous  and  restless — ■ 
Rachel  had  looked  in  for  a  moment  and  had  told  him  that  she 
was  going  to  see  Christopher,  that  she  might  not  return  to 


CHAMBER  MUSIC  — A  TRIO  427 

luncheon.  He  had  fancied  that,  in  those  few  moments,  he 
had  divined  in  her  some  especial  thrill  — "  We're  all  going  to 
be  tuned  up  this  afternoon." 

If  he  found  —  and  this  was  the  question  that  he  asked 
himself  most  urgently  —  that  Rachel  really  had,  in  the 
competent  interpretation  of  the  term,  "  deserted  "  him  for 
Breton,  what  would  be  his  sensations  ?  Being  an  Englishman 
he  would,  of  course,  horsewhip  the  fellow,  divorce  Rachel 
and  lead  a  misanthropic  but  sensual  existence  for  the  rest 
of  his  days.  But  here  the  wild  strain  in  Roddy  counted. 
That  is  exactly  what  Roddy  would  not  do.  What  was  law 
for  the  man  must  be  law  also  for  the  woman. 

He  had,  on  an  earlier  day,  told  her  that  were  he  to  present 
her  with  a  thousand  infidelities,  yet  he  would  love  her  best 
and  most  truly,  and  therefore  she  must  forgive  him.  Well, 
that  should  be  true  too  for  her.  .  .  .  Any  episode  with  Breton 
seemed  only  an  incident  in  the  pursuit  of  her  that  Roddy  had 
commenced  on  that  day  that  he  had  married  her. 

And  yet  was  not  this  readiness  on  his  part  to  forgive  her 
sprung  from  his  conviction  that  she  would  have  told  him 
had  she  had  so  much  to  confess  to  him  ?  Let  her  relations 
with  Breton  remain  uncertain  and  shifting,  then  she  might 
have  found  justification  for  her  silence ;  let  them  once  have 
found  so  definite  a  climax  and  she  must  have  spoken  —  Roddy 
had  indeed  advanced  in  his  knowledge  both  of  her  and  him- 
self since  two  years  ago. 

By  the  early  afternoon  he  was  in  a  pitiable  state.  Should 
he  send  notes  to  the  Duchess  and  Breton  telling  them  both 
that  he  was  too  unwell,  too  cross,  too  sleepy,  too  "  anything  " 
to  see  them?  Should  he  retire  to  bed  and  leave  Peters  to 
make  his  excuses?  Should  he  disappear  and  tell  Rachel  to 
deal  with  them  ?  What  a  scene  there'd  be  between  the  three 
of  them ! 

His  illness  had  made  a  difference  to  his  nerve,  lying  there 
on  one's  back  took  the  grit  away,  gave  one  too  much  time  to 
think,  showed  one  such  momentous  issues. 


428  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

On  the  events  of  this  afternoon  might  hang  all  his  life  and 
ail  Rachel's ! 

His  capture  of  her  was  indeed  now  to  he  put  to  the 
test  I  •  .  . 

n 

Rachel  came  into  his  room  at  four  o'clock.  She  carried  a 
great  hunch  of  violets  and  a  paper  parcel. 

She  smiled  across  the  room  at  him;  a  cap  of  white  fur 
on  her  head,  and  the  hand  with  the  violets  held  also  a  large 
white  muff. 

"  Roddy  —  I'm  coming  to  have  tea  with  you  —  alone. 
You'll  be  out  to  everyone,  won't  you?  But  first,  see  what 
I've  brought  you." 

She  was  dreadfully  excited,  he  thought,  as  though  she 
knew  already  the  kind  of  thing  that  awaited  her.  Her  smile 
was  nervous,  and  that  trembling  of  her  upper  lip,  as  though 
she  would,  perhaps,  cry  and  perhaps  would  laugh  but  really 
was  not  sure,  always  told  him  when  she  was  afraid. 

"  See  what  I've  brought  you !  "  She  put  the  violets  down 
upon  the  table  beside  him  — "  !N"ow !  Look !  "  She  undid 
the  paper  and  held  up  to  his  gaze  a  deep,  gleaming  silver 
lustre  bowl,  a  beautiful  bowl  because  of  its  instant  friendliness 
and  richness  and  completeness  — "  I  found  it !  "  she  said, 
"  staring  at  me  out  of  a  shop  window,  demanding  to  be 
bought.     I  thought  you'd  like  it." 

She  put  it  on  his  table,  found  water  and  filled  it,  then 
arranged  the  violets  in  it. 

"  Oh !  my  dear !  it's  beautiful !  "  he  said,  and  then,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face,  watched  her  arrange  the  flowers. 
But  he  brought  out  at  last,  "  I'm  afraid  I  can't  promise  to  be 
alone  for  tea." 

"  Oh !  "  she  stepped  back  from  the  flowers  and  looked  at 
him.  They  faced  one  another,  the  silver  bowl  between  them. 
She  stood,  as  she  always  did,  when  she  had  something  difficult 
to  face,  her  long  arms  straight  at  her  side,  her  handsi  slowly 


CHAMBER  MUSIC  — A  TRIO  429 

closing  and  unclosing,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  some  far  distance. 

"  Roddy,  please ! "  she  said,  "  I  do  want  to  be  alone  with 
you  this  afternoon.  I  have  a  special,  very  special  reason.  I 
want  to  talk." 

"  You  see "  he  said. 

*'  No,"  she  cried  impatiently.  "  We  must  have  this  after- 
noon to  ourselves.  Tell  Peters  that  you're  too  ill,  too  tired, 
anything.  I'm  sure,  after  all  that  storm  last  night,  it  would 
be  perfectly  natural  if  you  were.     Now,  please,  Roddy." 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,  Rachel  dear.  If  I'd  only  known.  If 
you'd  only  told  me  last  night." 

"  I  didn't  know  myself  last  night.  How  could  I  ?  But 
now  —  it's  most  awfully  important,  Roddy.  I've  —  I've 
something  to  tell  you.'* 

His  heart  beat  thickly,  his  eyes  shone. 

"  Well,  they  won't  stay  long,  I  dare  say.'* 

"  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Oh !  nobody  —  special.     Friends " 

"  Then  if  they  aren't  special  put  them  off.  Roddy  dear,  I 
I /eg  you " 


"  No,  Rachel,  I  can't " 

"  Well  —  you  might "     For  a  moment  it  seemed  that 

she  would  be  angry.  Then  suddenly  she  smiled,  shrugged 
her  shoulders  —  at  last,  moved  across  and  touched  the  violets ; 
then,  with  a  little  gesture,  bent  down  and  kissed  him. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  of  course  you  wiU  have  your  way.  But 
am  I  to  be  allowed  to  come  or  are  these  mysterious  friends  of 
yours  too  private  —  too  secret  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.     I  want  you  to  come." 

"  I'll  go  and  take  my  things  off.  I  hope  they'll  come  soon ; 
I'm  dying  for  tea.  I've  had  such  a  tiring  day,  and  last 
night " 

"  How  was  last  night  ?     You  haven't  had  time  to  tell  me." 

She  was  by  the  door,  but  she  turned  and  faced  him.  "  Oh ! 
t  was  so  silly.  The  weather  upset  me  and  I  went  and  fainted 
at  Lady  Carloes'." 


430  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  Fainted !  "     His  voice  was  instantly  sharp  with  anxiety. 

"  Yes  —  in  the  middle  of  dinner.  Such  a  scene  and  Uncle 
Richard  thought  I  let  down  the  family  dreadfully." 

"  I  hope  you  went  straight  to  bed  —  Ah !  that  was  why  you 
saw  Christopher  this  morning !  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  why !  ISo,  I  didn't  come  straight  back 
last  night  —  I  went  round  to  Lizzie's  —  I  was  frightened  and 
felt  that  I  couldn't  come  back  all  alone." 

They  were  both  of  them  instantly  aware  that  someone  else 
lived  at  24  Saxton  Square  beside  Miss  Rand.  There  was  a 
sharp  little  pause,  during  which  they  both  of  them  heard 
their  hearts  say :  "  Oh  I  I  hope  you  aren't  going  to  let  iJiat 
little  thing  matter !  '* 

Then  Roddy  said  — "  Well,  dear.  I'm  jolly  glad  you  did 
go  to  Lizzie.  I  hate  your  fainting  like  that.  What  did 
Christopher  say  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Oh !  nothing  —  I'll  tell  you  later." 

She  was  gone. 

When  she  returned  Peters  was  bringing  in  the  tea  and  they 
could  exchange  no  word.  The  spring  was  beginning,  already 
the  evenings  were  longer  and  a  pale  glow,  orange-coloured, 
lingered  in  the  sky  and  lit  the  green  of  the  park  with  dim 
radiance.  Within  the  room  the  fire  crackled,  the  silver  shone, 
the  lustre  bowl  was  glowing  — 

Rachel  went  across  to  the  table,  then  staring  out  at  the 
evening  light  said,  "  Roddy,  who  are  your  visitors  ?  " 

Peters  answered  her  question  by  opening  the  door  and  an- 
■  nouncing  — 

"  Mr.  Breton,  my  lady." 

m 

She  took  it  with  a  composure  that  was  simply  panic  frozen 
into  stillness.  She  saw  him  come,  straight  from  the  square 
immobility  of  Peters,  out  to  meet  her,  noticed  that  he  lookec\ 
"  most  horribly  ill "  and  that  his  eyes  cowered,  as  it  were, 
behind  their  lashes,  as  though  they  feared  a  blow  —  she  saw 


CHAMBER  MUSIC  — A  TRIO  431 

liiin  catch  the  picture  of  her,  hold  her  for  an  instant  whilst 
his  cheeks  flooded  with  colour,  then  all  expression  left  him; 
he  walked  towards  her  as  though  the  real  Francis  Breton, 
after  that  first  glance  had  turned  and  left  the  room,  and  only 
the  lifeless  husk  of  him  remained. 

For  herself,  after  the  word  from  Peters,  her  mind  had  flown 
to  Roddy.  He  knew  everything  —  there  could  no  longer  he 
doubt  of  that  —  but  oh !  how  she  turned  furiously  now  upon 
the  indecision  that  had  allowed  her  to  surrender  her  courage 
and  her  self-respect !  With  that  she  wondered  what  it  was  that 
her  grandmother  had  told  him.  Perhaps  he  believed  worse 
than  the  truth.     Perhaps  he  thought  that  nothing  too  bad  .  .  . 

And  what,  after  all,  did  he  intend  to  do  ?  This  meeting 
had  sprung  from  some  arranged  plan  and  he  had,  doubtless, 
now,  some  end  in  view.  Had  he  meditated  some  vengeance 
upon  Breton  ?     At  all  costs,  he  must  be  protected. 

Meanwhile  Breton  had,  apparently,  taken  it  for  granted 
that  she  had  known  about  his  coming. 

"  How  do  you  do.  Lady  Seddon  ? "  he  said,  shaking  her 
hand. 

"  You  don't  know  my  husband,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  Roddy,  this  is  Mr.  Breton." 

Breton  went  over  to  the  sofa  and  the  two  men  shook  hands. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  Roddy  said,  smiling.  "  My  word,  the 
feller  does  look  ill !  "  was  Roddy's  thought.  He  did  not  know 
what  type  of  man  he  had  expected  to  see,  but  it  was  not,  most 
certainly,  this  nervous  rather  pathetic  figure  with  the  pointed 
beard,  the  white  cheeks,  the  blue  eyes,  the  armless  sleeve, 
that  uncertain  movement  that  invited  your  consideration  and 
seemed  to  say,  "  I've  had  a  bad  time  —  not  altogether  my 
fault     I'm  trying  now  to  do  my  best.     Do  help  me." 

"  Just  the  sort  of  feller  women  would  be  sorry  for,"  Roddy 
thought.  But  he  was  rather  happily  conscious  that,  although 
he  was  lying  there  helpless  on  his  back,  he  was  on  the  whole 
in  better  trim  than  his  visitor. 

Breton,  before  he  sat  down,  turning  to  Roddy,  said,  "  I 


*32  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

was  very  nearly  wiring  to  you  my  excuses,  Sir  Roderick. 
I've  been  most  awfully  unwell  lately  and  all  that  thunder  yes- 
terday laid  me  up.  I  got  sunstroke  once  in  Africa  and  I've 
always  had  to  be  careful  since." 

"  Jolly  good  of  you  to  come,"  said  Roddy.  "  Sorry  it  was 
such  short  notice.  But  I  can  never  tell,  you  know,  quite  how 
I'll  be  from  day  to  day." 

Breton  sat  down  and  the  two  men  looked  at  one  another. 
To  Breton,  whose  imagination  led  him  to  live  in  an  alternation 
of  consternation  and  anticipation,  the  whole  affair  was  utterly 
bewildering.  He  had  reached  his  rooms,  on  the  night  before, 
soaked  to  the  skin,  and  had  found  Roddy's  note  waiting  for 
him.  It  had  seemed  to  him  then  as  though  it  were,  in  all 
probability,  some  trick  of  the  devil's,  but  he  had  of  course 
accepted  it  as  he  accepted  all  challenges. 

He  had  supposed  that  he  would  be  confronted  by  a  raging, 
tempestuous  husband.  He  would  welcome  anything  that 
would  bring  him  again  into  contact  with  Rachel  and  he 
always  enjoyed  a  scene.  But  he  had  never,  for  an  instant, 
imagined  that  Rachel  would  be  present.  The  sight  of  her 
took  all  calmer  deliberation  away  from  him  because  he  wished 
so  eagerly  to  speak  to  her  and  to  hear  her  voice. 

They  were  sitting  with  the  table  between  them  and  they 
were  both  of  them  conscious  first  of  Roddy,  lying  so  still  and 
watching  them  from  his  sofa,  and  then  of  the  last  time  that 
they  had  met  and  of  that  last  kiss  they  had  taken.  But 
Rachel,  with  strange  relief  and  also  with  yet  stranger  disap- 
pointment, was  realizing  that  Breton's  presence  gave  her  no 
spark,  no  tiniest  flame  of  passion.  She  was  sorry  for  him, 
she  wished  most  urgently  that  no  harm  should  come  to  him^ 
she  would,  here  at  this  moment,  protect  him  with  her  life,  with 
her  honour,  with  anything  that  he  might  demand  of  her,  but 
her  emotion,  every  vital  burning  part  of  it,  was  given  to  her 
retention  of  Roddy. 

She  might  have  felt  anger  because  she  had,  as  it  were, 
been  entrapped,  she  might  have  felt  terror  of  the  possibly 


CHAMBEK  MUSIC  — A  TRIO  488 

results  to  herself  .  .  .  she  felt  nothing  except  that  she  must 
not  lose  Roddy. 

"  I  know  now,"  she  said,  perhaps  to  herself,  "  I  know  at 
last  what  it  is  that  I  have  wanted.  And,  knowing  this,  if, 
just  grasping  it,  I  should  lose  it !  " 

"  Tea,  Mr.  Breton  —  sugar  ?  Milk  ?  Would  you  take  my 
husband's  cup  to  him  ?  Thank  you  so  much.  Yes,  he  has 
sugar " 

"  I  was  so  sorry,"  Breton  said,  "  to  hear  of  your  accident. 
You  must  have  had  a  bad  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roddy,  laughing.  "  It  was  rotten !  But 
what  one  loses  one  way  one  gains  in  another,  I  find.  People 
are  much  pleasanter  than  they  used  to  be." 

Roddy,  as  he  looked  at  them  both,  had  something  of  the 
feeling  that  a  schoolboy  might  be  expected  to  have  did  he 
suddenly  find  that  some  trick  that  he  had  planned  was  having 
a  really  great  success. 

He  was  strangely  relieved  at  Breton's  appearance,  he  was 
![iiore  sure  than  ever  of  his  retention  of  Rachel,  he  had,  most 
delightfully  up  his  sleeve,  the  imminent  appearance  of  the 
Duchess.  As  he  looked  at  his  wife  he  could  see  that  she  was 
appealing  to  him  not  to  make  it  too  hard  for  both  of  them. 
He  could,  now  that  he  had  seen  Breton,  flatter  himself  with 
something  of  the  same  superiority  that  Rachel  had  once  shown 
on  beholding  Nita  Raseley. 

Breton,  as  the  moments  passed,  felt  firmer  ground  beneath 
his  feet.  Rachel,  wondering  how  she  could  contrive  their 
meeting,  had  chosen  this,  the  boldest  way,  had  begged  her  hus- 
band to  invite  him,  planned  to  make  him  a  friend  of  the  house. 
And  yet  with  all  this  new  confidence,  he  felt  too  that  there 
was  something  that  he  missed  in  Rachel,  some  response  to 
his  thrill ;  he  could  see  that  she  was  ill  at  ease  and  was  relying 
on  him  perhaps,  "  to  carry  it  off." 

So  he  carried  it  off,  talked  and  laughed  about  his  experi- 
ences, the  countries  that  he  had  seen,  things  that  he  had  done, 
and,  as  always  when  he  was  striving  to  make  the  best  im- 


434  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

pression,  made  the  worst,  letting  that  note  of  exaggeration, 
of  something  theatrical  that  was  dangerously  near  to  a  pose, 
creep  into  his  voice  and  his  attitude. 

Eachel  and  Eoddy  said  very  little.  He  stopped,  felt  that 
he  had  been  speaking  too  much,  and,  sensitive  always  to  an 
atmosphere  that  was  not  kindly  to  him,  cursed  himself  for  a 
fool  and  wished  that  he  had  never  spoken  at  all. 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then  Eoddy  said,  "  That's  very 
interesting.  I've  never  been  to  South  America,  but  I  hear 
it's  going  to  be  the  place  soon.  Everyone's  as  rich  as  Croesus 
out  there,  I  believe.  Another  cup,  Eachel  dear,  please  —  Oh ! 
thank  you,  Mr.  Breton." 

Breton  brought  the  cup  to  Eachel  and  then  stood  there, 
with  his  back  to  Eoddy,  his  eyes  upon  Eachel's  face,  trying 
to  tell  her  what  he  was  feeling.  Quietly  Eoddy's  voice  came 
to  them  both. 

"  There  is  one  little  thing  —  one  reason  why  I  wanted  you 
to  come  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Breton." 

Eachel  got  up,  her  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  Eoddy's  face. 
"  IvTo,  Eachel,  don't  go.  It  concerns  us  all  three."  Eoddy 
laughed.  "  I  don't  want  any  of  us  to  take  it  very  seriously. 
It  is  entirely  between  ourselves.  I  do  hope,"  he  went  on  more 
gravely,  "  that  I  haven't  been  takin'  any  liberty  in  arrangin' 
things  like  this,  but  it  seemed  to  me  the  only  way  —  just  to 
stop,  you  know,  the  thing  once  and  for  all." 

Breton  had  left  the  table  and  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  A  thousand  wild  thoughts  had  come  to  him. 
This  was  a  trap  —  a  trap  that  Eachel  .  .  . 

The  room  whirled  about  him  —  he  put  his  hand  on  to  the 
back  of  a  chair  to  steady  himself,  then  turned  to  Eachel, 
seeking  her  with  his  eyes. 

He  saw  instantly  in  her  white  face  and  eyes,  that  never 
left,  for  an  instant,  her  husband,  that  there  was  nothing  here 
of  which  she  had  had  any  foreknowledge. 

'*  It's  only,"  said  Eoddy,  "  that  somebody  came  to  me,  a 
few  days  ago,  and  told  me  that  you,  Mr.  Breton,  and  my  wife 


CHAMBER  MUSIC  —  A  TRIO  435 

were  on  friendlier  terms  than  I  —  well,  than  I  would,  if  I  had 
known,  have  cared  for " 

Breton  started  forward.     "  I "  he  hegan. 

"  N^o,  please,"  said  Roddy.  "  It  isn't  anythin'  that  I  my- 
self have  taken,  don't  you  know,  for  a  second,  seriously.  I 
have  only  arranged  that  we  three  should  come  like  this  be- 
cause —  for  all  our  sakes  —  if  people  are  sayin'  those  things 
it  ought  to  be  stopped.  It's  hard  for  me,  you  see,  beiri'  like 
this  to  know  quite  how  to  stop  it,  so  I  thought  we'd  just  meet 
and  talk  it  over." 

Roddy  drew  a  deep  breath.  He  hated  explaining  things,  ha 
disliked  intensely  having  to  say  much  about  anything.  He 
looked  round  at  Rachel  with  a  reassuring  smile  to  tell  her 
that  she  need  not  really  be  alarmed. 

She  had  left  the  table  and  stood  facing  both  the  men.  Full 
at  her  heart,  was  a  deep,  glad  relief  that,  at  last,  at  last,  the 
moment  had  come  when  she  could  tell  everything,  when  she 
might  face  Roddy  with  all  concealment  cleared,  when  she 
might,  above  all,  meet  her  grandmother's  definite  challenge 
and  withstand  it. 

But,  indeed,  she  was  to  meet  it,  more  immediately  and  more 
dramatically  than  she  had  expected.  Even  as  she  prepared 
to  speak,  she  caught,  beyond  the  door,  strange  shuffling 
sounds. 

The  door,  rather  clumsily,  as  though  handled  with  muffled 
fingers,  slowly  opened. 

Framed  in  it,  leaning  partly  upon  Peters,  and  partly  upon 
a  footman,  staring  at  the  room  and  its  occupants  from  beneath 
the  sinister  covering  of  a  black  high-peaked  bonnet,  was  the 
Duchess. 

The  old  lady  caught,  for  a  second,  the  vision  of  her  grand- 
children, beat  down  from  her  face  the  effect  that  their  presence 
had  upon  her,  then  moved  slowly,  between  her  supporters, 
towards  the  nearest  chair. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  QUARTETTE 

"  Her  dignity  consisted,  I  do  believe,  in  her  recognition,  always  sure 
and  prompt,  of  the  dramatic  moment." — Henby  Galleon. 


RACHEL  came  forward :  Eoddy  from  his  sofa  said  some- 
thing. 

She  was,  it  seemed,  unconscious  of  them  all,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  a  large  black-leather  arm-chair,  settling  slowly  down 
into  it,  dismissing  Peters  and  the  footman  with  "  Thank  you 
—  That  is  very  kind  " :  then,  at  last  leaning  her  hands  upon 
her  ebony  cane,  raised  her  eyes  and  smiled  grimly,  almost 
triumphantly,  at  Koddy. 

He  had  been  aware,  at  that  first  glimpse  of  her  in  the  door^ 
way,  that  he  was  ashamed  of  himself.  He  should  not  have 
done  it. 

She  was  older,  feebler,  more  of  a  victim  than  he  had  evei 
conceived  her  possibly  to  be,  and  in  some  way  the  situation 
that  awaited  her  changed  her  entirely  from  the  old  tyrant 
who  had  sat  there  talking  to  him  only  a  week  ago  into 
someone  who  demanded  of  one's  chivalry,  of  one's  courtesy, 
protection. 

Roddy  had  also  caught  the  light  of  fierce  recognition  that 
had  leapt  up  into  Breton's  face  as  he  had  realized  who  it  was 
that  stood  before  him.  Breton  must  have  many  old  scores  to 
pay.  .  .  .  Roddy  was  suddenly  frightened  of  the  emotions, 
the  fierce  resentments,  the  angry  rebellions  that  he  had 
brought  so  lightly  into  collision. 

But  the  smile  that  the  Duchess  flung  to  him  had  in  it  no 

fear.     It  said  to  him :     "  Oh,  young  man,  this  is  your  little 

plot,  is  it  ?     Oh,  Roddy,  my  friend,  how  young  you  are  and 

436 


A  QUARTETTE  437 

Jiow  little  you  know  me  if  you  think  that  I  am  in  the  least  em' 
barrassed  by  this  little  gathering.  I'm  glad  that  you've  given 
me  a  chance  of  showing  what  I  can  do." 

She  dominated  the  room ;  she  was,  from  the  minute  of  her 
appearance,  mistress  of  the  situation.  They  realized  her 
power  as  they  had  never  realized  it  before. 

Sitting  there,  leaning  forward  upon  her  cane,  she  remark- 
ably resembled  Yale  Ross's  portrait.  She  was  even  wearing 
the  green  jade  pendant,  and  her  black  dress,  her  bonnet,  her 
fine  white  wrists,  a  gold  chain  with  its  jangling  cluster  of 
things  —  a  gold  pencil,  a  card  case,  a  netted  purse  —  these 
flung  into  fine  relief  the  sharp  white  face  lit  now  with  an 
amused,  an  ironic  vitality. 

She  was  old,  she  was  ill,  she  was  being  trodden  down  by 
generations  hungrier  than  any  that  she  had  ever  known,  but 
she  was  as  indomitable  as  she  had  ever  been. 

She  looked  about  the  room ;  her  glance  passed,  without  any 
flash  of  recognition,  without  sign  or  signal  that  she  had 
realized  his  presence,  over  the  fierce  figure  of  her  grandson. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Rachel,  "  I'm  sure  this  is  all 
very  pleasant  and  most  unexpected.     Let's  have  some  tea." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Rachel,  "  that  it's  been  standing  some 
time.     Let  me  ring  for  some  fresh." 

"  Wo  —  I  like  it  strong.  It  used  always  to  be  strong  when 
I  was  younger.  This  new  generation  likes  things  weak,  I 
believe." 

Rachel,  looking  at  her  grandmother,  felt  nothing  of  Roddy's 
compunction.  She  did  not,  even  now,  grasp  entirely  Roddy's 
intention ;  she  had  no  sure  conviction  of  the  climax  that  he 
intended ;  but  she  did  know  that  here,  at  last,  was  her  chance ; 
she  should  lift,  once  and  for  all,  out  from  all  the  lies  and 
confusion  that  had  shrouded  them,  her  attempts  at  courage 
and  honesty,  attempts  that  had  wretchedly,  most  forlornly 
failed. 

Breton  should  know,  Roddy  should  know,  the  Duchess 
should  know,  and  she  herself  should  never  again  go  back. 


438  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

Breton  did  not  move  from  the  corner  where  he  was  sitting; 
lie  waited  there,  his  hand  pressing  hard  upon  his  knee. 

Roddy  said,  "  Most  awfully  good  of  you,  Duchess,  to  come 
out  again.  I  wouldn't  have  dared  to  ask  you  to  come  if 
Christopher  hadn't  said  that  last  time  did  you  no  harm." 

"  Only  for  you,  Roddy,"  she  answered  him  almost  gaily, 
"  and  Rachel  of  course.  To-day's  a  nice  day.  All  that 
thunder  has  cleared  the  air." 

What  her  voice  must  have  seemed  to  Erancis  Breton,  com- 
ing back  to  him  again  after  so  vast  a  distance,  bringing  to 
him  a  thousand  memories,  scenes  and  faces  that  had  been 
buried,  a  whole  world  of  regrets,  and  disappointments. 

Rachel  gave  her  her  tea ;  brought  a  little  table  to  her  side. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear.  How  are  you,  Rachel  ?  You're 
not  looking  very  well.  Richard,  who  came  in  to  see  me  this 
morning,  told  me  that  you  were  ill  at  dinner  last  night.  He 
seemed  quite  anxious." 

"  It  was  nothing,  thank  you,  grandmamma.  That  thunder 
always  upsets  me.  I  was  sorry  to  interfere  with  Lady 
Carloes'  dinner-party." 

"  'Not  much  of  a  party  from  what  Richard  told  me.  And 
she  had  in  a  harpist  afterwards.  Why  a  harpist  ?  Poor 
Aggie  Carloes !  Always  done  the  wrong  thing  ever  since  she 
was  a  child.  Yes,  her  little  drawing-room's  so  stuffy,  they  tell 
me  —  must  have  been  intolerable  last  night." 

It  was  for  all  three  of  them  a  quite  unbearable  situation. 
Roddy  had  never,  even  when  he  was  a  boy  of  sixteen,  been 
afraid  of  her ;  now  at  last  he  understood  what  the  power  was 
that  had  kept  her  family  at  her  feet  for  so  many  years, 
indeed,  he  seemed  now  to  perceive  in  all  of  them  —  in  Breton, 
in  Rachel,  as  well  as  in  the  Duchess  —  a  strain  of  some  almost 
hysterical  passion,  that,  held  in  check  though  it  was,  for  the 
moment,  promised  to  flare  into  the  frankest  melodrama  at 
'the  slightest  pretext. 

Anything  better  than  this  pause ;  he  plunged. 

"  You  won't  forgive  me,  Duchess,"  he  said  abruptly.     "  I 


A  QUAETETTE  439 

believe  I've  done  a  pretty  rotten  thing.  I  didn't  intend  it 
that  way.  I  only  meant  just  to  clear  everything  up  and  make 
it  all  straight  for  everybody,  but  if  I've  been  unpardonable 
just  say  so  and  give  it  me  hot." 

He  paused  and  cleared  his  throat.  "  I  wonder  if  you'd 
mind,  Eachel,"  said  the  Duchess,  "  passing  me  that  little 
stool  that  I  see  over  there  —  that  little  brown  stool.  Just  put 
it  under  my  feet,  will  you  ?     Thank  you." 

Roddy  desperately  proceeded. 

"  It's  only  this.  You  said  the  last  time  you  came  that  you 
had  heard  —  that  you  knew  —  that  you  were  afraid  that 
Rachel  and  your  grandson,  Mr.  Breton,  were  —  had  been  — 
seein'  too  much  of  one  another.  You  jnst  put  it  to  me,  you 
know  —  Well,"  he  went  on,  trying  to  make  his  voice  cheerful 
and  ordinary  and  failing  completely,  "  lyin'  on  one's  back  one 
gets  thinkin'  and  broodin',  specially  a  feller  who  hasn't  been 
used  to  it,  like  me.  I  got  worried  —  not  because  I  didn't 
trust  Rachel  —  and  Mr.  Breton,  of  course,  all  the  way,  be- 
cause I  do ;  but  simply  that,  you  know,  it's  rotten  for  a  feller 
to  be  lyin'  helpless  on  his  back,  thinkin'  that  people  are  talkin' 
about  his  wife  —  you  know  how  malicious  people  are.  Duchess 
—  and  I  thought  it  jolly  well  must  be  stopped,  don't  you 
know,  and  I  wanted  it  stopped  quick  and  straight  and  clean, 
and  I  didn't  see  how  it  was  goin'  to  be  stopped  unless  I'd  got 
us  all  friendly  together  here  and  just  squashed  it,  all  of  us. 
And  so  —  well,  to  speak  —  well,  here  we  are  .  .  .  And,"  he 
concluded,  trying  to  smile  upon  everyone  present,  "  I  do  hope 
it's  all  right.  It  didn't  seem  then  a  poor  sort  of  thing  to  do, 
but  somehow  gettin'  you  all  here  as  a  surprise  ..."  He 
broke  off,  made  noises  in  his  throat,  and  felt  that  the  room  was 
of  a  burning  heat. 

He  remembered,  vaguely,  that  he  had  designed  this  meeting 
as  a  punishment  to  the  old  lady ;  he  had  only  succeeded,  how- 
ever, in  revealing  his  own  cowardice ;  the  first  glimpse  of  her 
had  made  a  poor  creature  of  him.  Oh !  how  he  wished  him- 
self now  well  out  of  it !     And  yet,  behind  that  thought  was 


440  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

the  knowledge  of  the  little  speech  that  he  was  soon  to  make 
and  the  way  that,  with  it,  he  would  win  Rachel  and  hold  her 
for  ever  I  After  all,  it  came  to  that,  absolutely :  Rachel  was 
the  only  thing  in  all  the  world  that  mattered. 

The  Duchess  flung  upon  him  a  kindly  satiric  glance,  then, 
turning  from  him,  bent  her  sharp  little  eyes  upon  Rachelj 
leaning  forward  upon  her  cane  so  that  it  appeared  that  it  was 
now  only  with  Rachel  that  she  had  any  concern. 

"  Had  I  known  that  my  few  careless  words !  " —  She  broke 
off  with  a  little  impatient  gesture. 

"  Ah !   Rachel,   my  dear,   I'm  truly  sorry.     My  stupid- 

ity  .  .  ." 

But  Rachel,  her  eyes  upon  Roddy,  had  got  up,  had  moved 
across  to  Roddy's  sofa,  and  stood  there,  above  him.  Her 
eyes  moved,  then,  slowly  to  her  grandmother. 

"  There  was  no  need,"  she  said,  her  voice  low  and  tremb- 
ling, "  for  this.  If  I'd  dcme,  as  I  should,  it  couldn't  have 
happened.  I'm  responsible  for  all  of  it  and  only  I.  Roddy 
has  got  you  here  on  false  pretences,  grandmamma.  If  you'd 
rather  go  now  .  .  ." 

"  Thank  you,"  the  Duchess  said,  "  I'd  much  rather  stay. 
It  amuses  me  to  see  you  all  together  here." 

"  Then,"  said  Rachel,  "  I'll  say  what  I  ought  to  have  said 
before.  Roddy,"  turning  passionately  round  to  him,  "  you 
shall  have  everything  —  everything  —  from  the  very  begin- 
ning. Mr.  Breton  —  Erancis  —  will  agree  that  that's  what 
we  should  have  done  —  long  ago." 

Breton  made  a  movement  as  though  he  would  rise,  then 
stayed. 

"  Aren't  we,  my  dear  Rachel,"  said  the  Duchess,  "  making 
a  great  deal  of  a  very  small  affair  ?  " 

But  Rachel,  speaking  only  to  Roddy,  sinking  her  voice  and 
bending  a  little  down  to  him,  began,  "  Roddy,  one  thing  you've 
got  to  know  —  it's  been  from  the  beginning  only  myself  that 
was  to  blame.     Francis  " —  she  paused,  for  an  instant,  over 


A  QUARTETTE  441 

the  name  — "  Francis,  please,"  as  lie  moved  again  from  his 
corner,  "  let  me  tell  Roddy  .  .  ." 

She  went  on  then  more  firmly,  turning  a  little  round  to  her 
grandmother  again :  "  Roddy,  I  don't  want  to  defend  myself 
—  it's  the  very  last  thing  I  can  try  to  do  —  I  only  want  to 
tell  you  —  all  three  of  you  —  exactly  the  truth.  You  know, 
Roddy,  that  when  I  said  I'd  marry  you  it  wasn't  a  question 
of  love  between  us  at  all.  We  had  that  out  quite  straight  from 
the  beginning.  I  was  awfully  young:  I  wanted  safety  and 
protection  and  so  I  took  you.  You  rather  wanted  me,  and 
grandmother  wanted  you  to  marry  me,  and  so  there  you  were 
too.  Then  I  met  my  cousin  —  I'd  heard  about  him  since  I'd 
been  a  baby  and  he'd  heard  about  me.  We  had  a  lot  in  com- 
mon, tastes  and  dislikes  —  all  kinds  of  things.  We  met  and 
he  stirred  in  me  all  those  things  that  you,  Roddy,  had  never 
touched.  I  had  found  marriage  wasn't  the  freedom  I  had 
thought  that  it  would  be.  I  was  fond  of  you,  you  were  fond 
of  me,  but  there  was  something  always  there  jogging  both  of 
us  —  just  putting  us  out  of  patience  with  one  another. 
Things  got  worse.  You  never  could  explain  what  you  felt. 
I  tried,  but  the  whole  trouble  wouldn't  go  into  words  some- 
how. 

"  Erancis  and  I  wrote  to  one  another  a  little  and  then  one 
day  —  as  grandmamma  has  so  kindly  told  you — (here 
her  voice  was  sharp  for  a  moment) — I  went  to  his 
rooms."  Rachel  stopped.  She  was  looking  straight  in 
front  of  her,  her  hands  clenched.  She  seemed  to  dive  deep 
for  courage,  to  remain  for  an  instant  struggling,  then  to  rise 
with  it  in  her  hands.  Her  voice  was  strong  and  unfaltering. 
'*  We  found  that  we  loved  one  another.  We  told  each  other 
...  it  seemed  to  Francis  then  that  the  only  thing  was  for  us 
to  go  away  together.  But  I  refused.  Odd  though  it  may 
seem,  Roddy,  I  cared  for  you  then  more  than  I'd  ever  cared 
for  you  before,  and  I  think  it's  gone  on  since  then,  getting 
stronger  always.     I  wouldn't  go  and  I  wouldn't  see  Francis 


442  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

again,  and  we  weren't  to  write  again  —  unless  I  found  that  oul 
living  together,  Eoddy  —  you  and  I  —  was  hopeless.  Then 
I  said  I'd  go  to  him." 

Her  voice  sank  and  faltered  — "  There  did  come  a  day 
when  I  thought  that  —  we  couldn't  get  on  any  longer.  You 
know  what  finally  .  .  .  Lizzie  Eand  found  out  She  knew 
that  I  intended  to  go  away  with  Francis.  She  fought  to  pre- 
vent it  —  she  was  splendid  about  it,  splendid!  We  quar- 
relled, and  in  the  middle  of  it,  came  your  accident  ...  I 
wrote  afterwards  to  Francis  and  told  him  that  it  was  all  over 
—  absolutely  —  for  ever.  Since  then  —  only  once  .  .  .'* 
She  broke  off,  recovered :  "  Since  then  there's  been  nothing  — 
no  letter,  no  meeting  —  nothing.  My  whole  life  now  is 
wrapped  up  in  you,  Eoddy,  and  Francis  knows  that.  I've 
told  you  the  whole  truth !  "  She  turned  from  him,  fiercely, 
round  to  her  grandmother.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  told 
Eoddy,  what  you  made  him  believe  —  you've  wanted,  always, 
to  harm  me  with  Eoddy  if  you  could.  At  least,  now,  you 
can't  tell  him  more  than  I've  done." 

The  Duchess  stared  first  at  Eachel,  then  at  Eoddy.  She 
had  behaved  from  the  beginning  as  though  Breton  did  not 
exist. 

Some  of  her  amiability  had  left  her.  Her  lips  were  tightly 
drawn  together  as  she  listened  and  her  rings  tapped  one 
against  the  other. 

"  This  is  all  rather  tiresome,"  she  said  sharply.  "  Very 
like  you,  Eachel,  to  do  these  things  in  public.  You  get  that 
from  your  mother.  But  you're  strangely  lacking  in  humour. 
It  all  comes  from  my  own  very  unfortunate  remark  the  other 
day.  Not  like  you,  Eoddy  dear,  to  arrange  this  kind  of  thing. 
Stupid  .  .  .  distinctly  —  I'm  sure  now,  however,  that  you're 
satisfied.  Eachel's  certainly  been  very  frank  —  and  now 
perhaps  we  might  leave  it." 

It  was  then  that  Francis  Breton  came  forward  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  his  face  grey  with  anger,  something  sud- 


A  QUARTETTE  UtS 

denly  unrestrained  and  savage  in  his  eyes  so  that  the  room 
was  filled  with  a  wind  of  angry  agitation. 

He  stood  in  front  of  his  grandmother,  but  turned  his  head, 
sharply,  now  and  again,  round  to  Eoddy.  So  agitated  was 
he  that  his  words  came  in  little  gasps,  flung  out,  in  little 
bundles  together,  and  strangely  accented  as  though  he  were 
speaking  in  a  language  that  was  strange  to  him. 

The  sarcastic  smile  came  back  into  the  old  lady's  eyes  and 
she  leaned  forward  on  her  stick  again,  looking  up  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  didn't  know  —  I  didn't  know  —  that  we  were  going  to 
meet  like  this.  You  didn't  know  either  or  you  wouldn't  have 
come,  but  I've  been  waiting  for  years  for  this.  It's  been  nice 
for  me,  hasn't  it,  to  sit  by  whilst  you've  done  everything  to 
make  things  wretched  for  me,  to  ruin  me,  to  push  me  back 
to  where  .  .  ." 

Roddy's  voice  interrupted. 

"  Mr.  Breton,  I  think  you  forget " 

Instantly  Breton  stopped.  He  forced  control  upon  his 
voice,  he  stammered,  "  I'm  ashamed  —  I  oughtn't  to  have  — 
But  sitting  there  —  not  being  allowed  to  speak  —  you  must 
excuse  me " 

He  turned  round  to  Eoddy.  "  You  must  think  me  the  most 
complete  blackguard.  It's  only  a  climax  to  everything  that's 
happened  since  I  came  back.  I  don't  want  to  defend  myself, 
but  it  isn't  —  it  isn't  all  so  simple  as  just  talking  about  it 
makes  it  look.  You're  the  kind  of  man  to  whom  everything's 
just  black  or  white  —  you  do  it  or  you  don't  —  but  I  —  I've 
never  found  that.  I've  been  in  things  without  knowing  I've 
been  in  them.  I've  done  things  that  would  have  turned  out 
straight  for  any  other  fellow,  but  they've  always  been  crooked 
for  me.  Something  always  blinds  me  just  when  I  need  to  see 
Btraightest.     That's  no  excuse,  but  it's  an  awful  handicap. 

"  I  won't  hide  or  pretend  about  it.  Why  should  I  ?  I 
loved  Rachel.  We've  only  met  so  little  —  really  only  that 
once  in  my  rooms  —  that  you  can't  grudge  us  that.     We  had 


444  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WEEXE 

things  —  heaps  of  things  —  in  common  long  before  we  knew 
one  another.  It  wasn't  like  any  ordinary  two  people  meeting, 
and  I  knew  so  well  that  she  could  make  all  the  difference  to 
my  life  that  I  took  the  chance  of  knowing  her  even  though 
she  wasn't  ever  going  to  belong  to  me.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
really  believed  that  I'd  be  the  man.  I  know  now  that  she's 
yours  altogether  and  you  ought  to  have  her  —  now  that  I've 
seen  you  I  know  that.  And  last  night  when  I  faced  the  fact 
that  I'd  have  to  go  all  my  life  without  her  I  realized  what  she 
told  me  long  ago,  that  it  was  much  better  just  to  have  my 
idea  of  her  and  not  to  have  had  my  regret  about  having 
spoiled  anything  for  her.  I've  no  confidence  in  myself,  you 
see.  If  I  thought  I  were  the  kind  of  man  just  to  carry  her 
off  and  make  her  happy  for  ever  and  ever,  then  I  suppose 
I'd  have  been  bolder  about  her  long  ago,  but  I  know,  even 
if  she  didn't  belong  to  you  at  all,  that  I  should  be  afraid  that 
I'd  spoil  her  life  just  as  I've  always  spoiled  my  own. 

"  I  expect  this  is  all  very  confused.  It's  all  so  difficult  and 
you  don't  want  long  explanations,  but  I'm  only  trying  to  say 
that  you  needn't  ever  have  any  fear  again  that  I'm  going  to 
step  in  or  try  to  have  any  part  in  her.  We've  got  our  things 
together  that  nobody  can  take  from  us.  We've  seen  each 
other  so  little  that  most  people  would  say  it  wasn't  much  to 
give  up.  But  things  don't  happen  only  when  you're  together 
.  .  ."  He  stopped  suddenly,  seemed  to  stand  there  confused, 
turned  and  flimg  a  fierce,  defiant  look  at  his  grandmother  — 
exactly  the  glance  that  an  angry  small  boy  flings  at  someone 
in  authority  who  has  seen  fit  to  punish  him  —  then  went  back 
to  his  comer  and  stood  there  in  the  shadow,  watching  them  all. 

Even  as  he  finished  speaking  he  had  realized  finally  that  his 
relationship  with  Rachel  was  over,  closed,  done  for.  He  had 
known  it  on  that  afternoon  in  the  park  —  He  had  realized  it 
perhaps  again  in  the  heart  of  the  storm  last  night,  but  now, 
when  he  had  seen  the  soul  pierce,  through  Rachel's  eyes,  to  her 
husband,  he  knew  that  Roddy,  one  way  or  another,  had  at  last 
won  her. 


A  QIJAKTETTE  446 

Moreover,  to  anyone  as  impressionable  as  Breton,  Roddy's 
helplessness,  his  humour,  his  bravery  had,  on  the  score  of 
Roddy  alone,  settled  the  matter.  Breton  had  his  fierce  mo- 
ments, his  high  inspirations,  his  noble  resolves!  .  .  .  !N^ow, 
as  he  looked  this  last  time  upon  Rachel,  his  was  no  mean 
spirit. 

Rachel  drew  a  sharp  breath  and  looked  at  Roddy  with 
wide  eyes,  flooded  with  fear.  He  had  heard  now  everything 
that  they  had  to  say ;  although  she  had  watched  him  so  closely 
she  could  not  say  what  he  would  do.  As  she  saw  the  two 
men  there  before  her  she  felt  that  she  knew  Francis  Breton 
exactly,  that  she  could  tell  what  he  would  say,  how  he  would 
see  things,  what  would  anger  him  or  surprise  him. 

But  about  Roddy  she  was  always  uncertain:  she  was  only 
now,  very  slowly,  beginning  to  know  him,  but  she  was  sure 
that  if  Roddy  were  to  beat  her  she  would  care  for  him  the 
more,  but  if  Francis  Breton  were  to  beat  her  she  would  leave 
him  for  ever. 

A  flush  meanwhile  was  rising  over  Roddy's  neck,  up  into 
his  face,  to  the  very  roots  of  his  hair. 

"  It's  rather  beastly,"  he  said,  speaking  very  slowly  and 
trying  to  choose  his  words,  "  all  this  talkin'.  I  might  have 
known,  if  I'd  been  able  to  think  about  it,  what  it  would  be  like, 
but  there,  I  never  did.  I  had  a  kind  of  idea  that  we'd  all  get 
it  over  sort  of  in  five  minutes  and  then  have  tea,  don't  you 
know,  and  all  go  away  comfortably.  I  don't  feel  now  that 
you've  rightly  got  all  that  everybody  thinks  about  it.  It  was 
very  decent  of  you,  Mr.  Breton,  to  say  exactly  —  so  plainly, 
you  know  —  how  you  felt.  But  I  don't  want  to  talk  a  lot  —  I 
can't  you  know,  anyhow. 

"  It's  only  this.  I  wanted  the  Duchess  to  hear  me  say, 
amongst  ourselves,  that  I  know  all  about  it,  that  we  all  know 
all  about  it  and  that  there  isn't  anything  for  anyone  to  talk 
about  because  there  isn't  anything  in  it,  and  if  I  hear  of  any- 
one say  in'  a  word  they've  just  got  to  reckon  with  me.  Rachel 
and  I  know  one  another  and,  Mr.  Breton,  I  hope  you'll  go  on 


44e  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

bein'  a  friend  of  ours  and  come  and  see  us  often.  Of  courso 
you  and  Rachel  have  a  lot  in  common  and  it's  only  natural 
you  should  have. 

"  Now  Duchess,  you  can  just  tell  anyone  who's  talkin'  that 
Mr.  Breton  is  welcome  here  just  as  often  as  he  pleases  and 
he's  a  friend  of  mine  and  my  wife's  —  and  they  can  jolly  well 
shut  their  mouths.     Thank  God,  all  that's  over." 

II 

But  he  was  very  swiftly  to  realize  that  it  was  not  all  over. 
Sharply,  quivering  through  the  air  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow, 
came  the  Duchess's  words. 

"  Good  God,  Eoddy,  are  you  completely  insane  ?  " 

She  was  twisted,  distorted  with  anger,  she  seemed  to  take 
her  rage  and  fling  it  about  her  so  that  the  chairs,  the  tables, 
Eoddy's  innocent  little  sporting  sketches  and  even  the  case  of 
birds'  eggs  were  saturated  with  it. 

The  gleaming  park,  the  peaceful  evening  sky,  the  sharp 
curve  of  an  apricot-tinted  moon,  these  things  were  blotted 
out  and  the  noises  of  the  town  deadened  by  this  indignant 
fury.  Eachel  had  known  it  in  other  days,  to  Breton  it  evoked 
long-distant  nursery  hours,  to  Eoddy  it  was  something  utterly 
new  and  unsuspected.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  caught 
a  shadow  of  the  terror  that  had  darkened  Eachel's  young 
days. 

To  the  Duchess  it  was  simply  that  she  now  clearly  discov- 
ered that  she  was  the  victim  of  an  elaborate  plot.  The  three 
of  them !  Oh !  she  saw  it  all !  and  Eoddy,  Eoddy  —  who  had 
been  the  one  living  soul  to  whom  her  hard  independence  had 
made  concession !  This  came,  the  definite  climax  to  the  year's 
accumulations,  the  final  decision  flung  at  her,  before  she  died, 
by  those  two  —  Eachel  and  Breton  —  from  whom,  of  all  living 
souls,  she  could  endure  it  least. 

With  her  rage  rose  her  fighting  spirit.  She  would  show 
them,  these  young  fools,  the  kind  of  woman  that  an  earlier 
and  a  finer  generation  than  theirs  could  produce ! 


A  QUARTETTE  447 

They  had  more  there  before  them  than  one  old  woman,  sick 
and  ailing,  and  they  should  see  it. 

Her  voice  shook  a  little,  but  she  gave  no  other  sign,  after 
that  first  challenge :  her  little  eyes  flamed  from  the  mask  of  her 
face  like  candles  behind  holes  in  a  screen. 

"  This  is  your  sense  of  fun,  Roddy,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 
"  You  always  mere  lacking  in  that.  I've  told  you  so  before. 
As  you  asked  me  here  I  suppose  you're  ready  for  my  opinion. 
You  shall  have  it.  I'll  only  ask  you  to  cast  your  eye  over  any 
friend  of  ours :  see  what  you  would  say  if  this  —  this  idiotic 
folly  committed  by  someone  else  had  come  to  your  ears.  I 
suppose  you'd  arranged  this,  the  three  of  you.  Well,  you 
shall  know  what  I  think.  Your  tenderness  to  Rachel  is  mag- 
nificent —  she  has  obviously  reckoned  on  it,  knew  that  her 
frankness  would  serve  her  well  enough.  You've  already  been 
more  patient  with  her  than  men  would  have  been  in  my  day. 
I  only  hope  that  your  patience  may  not  be  too  severely 
tried.  .  .  . 

"  As  for  my  grandson,  to  whom  you  have  so  tenderly  en- 
trusted Rachel,  your  acquaintance  with  him  is  quite  recent,  is 
it  not  ?  I  am  sure  that  if  you  were  to  enquire  of  any  man  at 
one  of  your  clubs  he  would  give  you  quite  excellent  reasons  for 
my  grandson's  long  unhappy  absence  from  his  relations  and 
his  country.  At  any  rate  you  don't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do. 
I  could  tell  you,  if  you  asked  me,  that  it  is  a  long  time  now 
since  any  decent  man  or  woman  has  sought  his  society.  Do 
you  suppose  that  his  family  have  not  the  best  of  reasons  for 
trying  to  forget  his  existence  —  an  attempt  that  he  makes  un- 
pleasantly difficult  ? 

"  Have  you  heard  nothing,  Roddy  ?  Do  you  really  want  a 
man  who  has  been  kicked  out  of  society  for  the  most  excellent 
reasons,  who  has  disgraced  his  name  as  no  member  of  his 
family  has  ever  disgraced  it  before  him,  for  your  wife's  lover  ? 
If  she  must  have  one  .  .  ." 

Rachel,  trembling,  had  come  forward,  Roddy  had  cried  out, 
but  quietly,  stronger  than  either  of  them,  Breton  had  faced 


us  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

her.  She  had  not,  throughout  the  afternoon,  looked  at  him 
nor  spoken  one  word  to  him.  Now,  her  anger  carrying  her  be- 
yond  all  physical  control,  she  was  compelled  to  meet  his  gaze. 
He  stood  very  quietly  beside  her  chair,  looking  at  the  three 
of  them.  "  My  grandmother  is  wrong,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not 
quite  as  deserted  as  she  thinks.  Just  before  I  came  here  this 
afternoon  Uncle  John  called  upon  me.  I  had  half  an  hour's 
very  pleasant  talk  with  him:  he  told  me  that,  although  his 
mother  had  not  altered  her  opinion  of  me.  Uncle  Vincent  and 
Aunt  Adela  and  himself  considered  that  I  had  earned  " —  he 
smiled  a  little  — "  forgiveness.  He  hoped  that  I  would 
understand  that  —  while  my  grandmother  was  alive  —  I 
could  not  be  invited  to  104  Portland  Place,  but  that  he 
thought  that  I  would  like  to  know  that  they  had  realized  my 

—  well,  improvement,  and  that  he  hoped  that  we  would  be 
friends.     I  said  that  I  should  be  delighted." 

The  Duchess  spoke  to  him  then,  her  voice  shaking  so  that 
it  was  difficult  to  catch  her  words. 

"  John  —  came  —  said  that  —  to  you?  ** 

"  Yes.     It  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  to-day " 

"Ser  eyes  had  dropped.     She  murmured  to  herseK: 

"  John  .  ,  .  John  .  .  .  Adela  .  ,  ,  behind  my  back  ,  •  • 

Adela  .  .  .  Vincent " 

They  were  all  silent.  She  sat  there,  her  head  down,  lean- 
ing on  her  hands,  brooding.  Her  anger  seemed  to  have  de- 
parted, her  fire,  her  fury  had  fled :  she  was  a  very  old  woman 

—  and  the  room  was  suddenly  chilly.  Before  her  were 
Rachel  and  Breton:  they  faced  the  ancient  enemy.  But  as 
Rachel  stood  there,  realizing  that  there  had  flashed  between 
them  the  climax  of  all  their  lives  together,  yes,  and  a  climax 
of  forces  greater  and  more  powerful  than  anything  that  their 
own  small  histories  could  contain,  she  had  no  sense  of  drama 
nor  of  revenge  nor  of  any  triumphant  victory.  A  little  while 
before  she  had  been  almost  insane  with  anger.  .  .  .  Now 
something  had  occurred.  Rachel  only  knew  that  the  three  of 
them  —  Roddy,  Francis  and  herself  —  were  young  and  im- 


A  QUARTETTE  449 

menfiely  vigorous,  with  all  life  before  them ;  but  that  one  day 
they  would  be  old,  as  this  old  woman,  and  would  be  deserted 
and  sick  and  past  anyone's  need  of  them. 

"  Oh !  I  wish  we  hadn't  I  I  wish  we  hadn't  I "  she 
thought. 

In  that  moment's  silence  they  all  might  have  heard  the 
sound  of  the  soft,  sharp  click  —  the  click  that  marked  the 
supreme  moment  of  their  relationship  to  the  situation  that 
had,  for  all  of  them,  been  so  long  developing  — 

Breton  surrendered  Eachel,  Roddy  received  her,  and,  be- 
yond them  all,  the  Duchess  definitely  abandoned  her  world. 

For  them  all,  grouped  there  so  closely  together,  the  heart 
of  their  relations  the  one  to  the  other  had  been  revealed  to 
them. 

Other  dramas,  other  comedies,  other  tragedies  —  This  had 
claimed  its  moment  and  had  passed.  .  .  . 

After  the  silence  the  Duchess  said,  "  My  family  —  I  no 
longer  .  .  ."  She  stopped,  collected,  with  all  her  will,  her 
words,  then  in  a  low  voice  said,  looking  at  Breton,  "  I  owe 
you,  I  suppose  —  an  apology.  I  owe  that  perhaps  to  you  alL 
My  children  are  wiser  in  their  own  generation.  I  no  longer 
understand  —  the  way  things  go  —  all  too  confused  for  my 
poor  intelligence."  She  pulled  herself  together  as  an  old 
ship  rights  itself  after  a  roller's  stinging  blow.  "  This  has 
lasted  long  enough.  ,  ,  .  We've  all  talked  —  My  family  are 
—  wiser  —  it  seems." 

But  she  could  not  go  on.  "  Please,  Roddy,"  she  said  at 
length,  "  I  think  it's  time  —  if  you'd  ring." 

"  I'm  sorry "  he  said  and  then  stopped. 

Soon  Peters  and  a  footman  appeared.  She  leaned  heavily 
upon  them  and,  staring  before  her  at  the  door,  slowly  went 
out 


CHAPTEE  IX 

RACHEL  AND  RODDY 

'Tell  me,  Praise,  and  tell  me.  Love, 
What  you  both  are  thinking  of? 
O,  we  think,  said  Love,  said  Praise, 
Now  of  children  and  their  ways." 

William  Bbightt  Rand. 


BRETOIT  had  gone ;  the  room  was  empty. 
Rachel  came  and,  kneeling  on  the  floor,  hid  her  face 
in  Eoddy's  coat.     He  put  his  hands  about  hers. 

His  only  desire  now  was  that  there  should  be  peaceful 
silence.  His  hatred  for  scenes  had  always  been  with  him  an 
instinct,  natural,  alert,  untiring,  so  that  he  would  undertake 
many  labours,  forgo  many  pleasant  prizes,  if  only  emotional 
crises  might  be  avoided. 

This  afternoon  had  showered  upon  him  a  relentless  succes- 
sion of  reverberating  displays,  he  had  perceived  one  human 
being  after  another  reveal  quite  nakedly  their  tumultuous 
feelings.  It  was,  for  him,  precisely  as  though  the  Duchess, 
Eachel,  Breton  had  stripped  there  before  him  and  expected 
him  to  display  no  astonishment  at  their  so  doing  —  that  he 
should  have  been  the  author  of  the  business  made  it  no  better ; 
he  reflected  that  he  had  even  looked  forward  with  excitement 
to  the  affair.     "  If  I  had  only  known  how  beastly  .  .  ." 

He  was  ashamed  —  ashamed  of  his  own  action  in  provoking 
these  things,  ashamed  of  his  own  lack  of  understanding, 
ashamed  to  have  watched  the  sharpened  tempers  of  hia 
frien^ls. 

He  would  never,  Heaven  help  him,  take  part  in  any  such 
scene  again ! 

But  out  of  it  all  one  good  thing  had  come  —  he  had  got 

450 


RACHEL  AND  EODDY  451 

Rachel !  As  she  had  looked  across  the  room,  meeting  his  eyes, 
he  had  known  that  at  last  his  long  pursuit  of  her  was  at 
an  end.  .  .  . 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  most  husbands,  after  such  a 
declaration  as  Rachel  had  just  made,  would  have  stormed, 
reproached,  ridden,  for  a  long  time  to  come,  the  high  horse 
of  conscious  superior  virtue. 

It  did  not  seem  odd  to  him  that  at  the  very  moment  of 
Rachel's  confession  he  should  feel  more  sure  of  her  than  he 
had  ever  been  before.  At  last  the  Nita  Raseley  debt  was 
paid  off.  At  last  he  knew,  beyond  question,  that  Rachel 
loved  him.  Best  of  all,  perhaps,  he  had  seen  Breton  and 
felt  his  own  superiority. 

That  being  so,  he  wanted  no  words  about  the  matter. 
He  would  like  to  lie  there  on  his  sofa,  with  her  hands  en- 
closed in  his  and  nothing  said  between  either  of  them  —  very 
pleasant  and  quiet  there  in  the  dusk.  He  hoped  that  he 
would  never  again  have  to  explain  anything  or  speak  to  any- 
one about  his  feelings  —  no,  not  even  to  Rachel. 

Then  he  discovered  that  she  was  sobbing  as  she  knelt  there, 
and  his  face  crimsoned  with  confusion  and  alarm.  Rachel, 
the  proudest  woman  he  had  ever  known,  kneeling  to  him, 
crying!  ^ 

He  tried  to  lift  her,  pressing  her  hands. 

"Rachel  dear  .  ,  .  Rachel." — Her  words  came  between 
her  sobs. 

"  I  should  have  told  you  .  .  .  long  ago  ...  I  tried  to  — 
I  did  indeed  .  .  .  but  it  was  because  I  was  frightened  .  .  . 
because  I  ...  Oh !     Roddy !  you'll  never  trust  me  again  1 " 

He  was  burning  hot  with  the  confusion  of  it:  he  was  al- 
most angry  both  with  himself  and  her. 

"  Please,  Rachel  .  .  .  please  .  .  .  don't  .  .  .  it's  all  over, 
dear.     There's  nothing  the  matter." 

"  It's  fine  of  you  ...  to  take  it  like  that  .  .  .  But  you'll 
never  forgive  me,  really,  you  can't  —  It  isn't  possible.  This 
very  afternoon  .  .  .  I  was  going  to  tell  you  —  if  all  this  .  .  . 


452  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

hadn't  happened.  You'll  be  different  now  —  you  must 
be  .  .  .  just  when  I  want  you  so  much." 

He  glanced  in  despair  about  the  room.  He  loolied  at  the 
sporting  prints  and  the  case  of  birds'  eggs  and  at  last  at 
Eachel's  photograph.  How  proud  and  splendid  she  was 
there!     This  dreadful  abasement  I 

He  stroked  her  hair. 

"  See  here,  old  girl  —  we've  had  a  rotten  afternoon,  haven't 
we  ?  Awfully  rotten  —  never  remember  to  have  spent  a 
worse.  All  my  fault,  too  —  poor  old  Duchess !  .  .  .  but  look 
here,  it's  all  right  now.  I  understand  everythin'  and  —  and 
—  dash  it  all  —  do  stop  cryin',  Rachel,  old  girl." 

"  It's  been  bad  enough,"  she  said,  her  voice  steadier  now, 
"  the  way  I've  been  to  you  all  this  time,  but  I  thought  —  at 
least  —  I  was  honest  —  I've  tried  —  I've  made  a  miserable 
failure  —  But,  Roddy,  you  need  —  never  —  never  —  b© 
afraid  of  anything  again  —  I'm  yours  altogether,  Roddy,  to 
do  anything  with.  .  .  . 

"  All  about  Erancis  —  I  was  mad  somehow  —  It  was  grand- 
mamma—  feeling  she  had  driven  me  into  marrying  you. 
And  then  !N^ita  .  .  .  and  then  I  didn't  know  you  a  bit  —  all 
there  was  in  you  —  but  now,"  and  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  him,  "  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  and 
strength." 

He  bent  down  his  head  and  rather  clumsily  kissed 
her. 

"  You  knov/,  Rachel,  I  was  a  bit  frightened  myself  this 
afternoon  — ■  thought  you  might  be  angry  because  I  took  you 
by  surprise.  You  bet,  if  I'd  known  what  it  was  going  to  be 
like  .  .  .  Well,  thank  the  Lord,  it's  done,  and  we'll  never 
have  another  like  it  —  I'll  see  to  that.  Scenes  are  rotten 
things,  aren't  they  ?  —  I  always  loathed  'em  even  when  I  was 
tiny  — '  so  did  the  governor.  ...  If  he  had  me  up  for  lickin' 
all  he  ever  said  was,  *  Down  with  your  bags  I '  That  was  all 
there  was  about  it." 

She  leant  her  cheek  against  his. 


RACHEL  AND  EODDY  453 

"You've  forgiven  me  all,  everything  —  absolutely?"  she 
asked. 

"  There  isn't  any  forgiveness  in  it,"  he  answered.  "  It's 
all  the  other  way,  if  it's  anythin'.  .  .  .  You  see,  I've  been 
thinkin'  a  lot  while  I  was  lyin'  here.  When  there  was  that 
business  over  Nita  I  said  you  should  always  be  free  just  as  I 
told  you  I  ought  to  be.  Well,  since  —  since  I  got  that  old 
tumble  —  I  haven't  any  right  to  hold  you  at  all.  I'm  just  an 
old  log  here,  no  good,  anyway,  and  only  a  nuisance.  And  if 
I  thought  I  was  keepin'  you  tied  I'd  be  miserable.  You  see, 
I  know  you're  fond  of  me  now.  I've  got  that.  .  .  .  Don't 
let's  talk  any  more  about  it.  You've  got  me  and  I've  got 
you  —  and  we  aren't  afraid  of  any  old  woman  in  the  world." 

He  held  her  closely  to  him,  his  arms  strong  about  her. 

"  There's  something  else  to  tell  you." 

"  Something  else  ?  " 

"Yes.  We're  going  to  have  a  child,  you  and  I,  Roddy. 
And  now  that  you've  forgiven  me  it's  all  right  —  but  that's 
partly  what's  made  me  afraid  all  these  last  weeks.  As  it  is, 
you've  got  me,  got  me,  got  me,  safe  for  ever  and  ever !  " 

"  Well,  I'm  damned !  "  said  Roddy. 

She  could  feel  his  hand  trembling  upon  hers. 

"  Oh,"  she  whispered,  "  I  was  frightened  this  afternoon  — 
terrified.     I  thought  you'd  never  see  me  again." 

Roddy  was  turning  things  over  in  his  mind. 

"A  kid  .  .  .  my  word.  Just  the  thing.  A  boy  .  .  .  it'll 
be  jolly  for  the  Place  and  I  can  teach  him  a  lot.  It'll  be 
somethin'  to  go  back  to  the  house  for.  Gosh!  There's 
news ! " 

His  eyes  wandered  round  the  room. 

"  Good  thing  I  kept  all  those  eggs  —  nearly  broke  'em  up 
too.  They're  a  jolly  fine  collection.  I'd  have  prized  'em  like 
anything  if  they'd  come  to  me  when  I  was  small."  He  caught 
her  hand  so  fiercely  that  she  gave  a  little  cry. 

"  What  a  day !  We'll  have  to  see  about  the  shootin*  down 
at  Seddon  again,  old  girl  .  .  .  Lord,  what  an  afternoon ! " 


CHAPTER  X 

LIZZIE  BECOMES  MISS  RAND  AGAIN 

"  So  she  put  the  handkerchief,  and  the  pin,  and  the  lock  of  hair 
back  into  the  box,  turned  the  key,  and  went  resolutely  about  her 
everyday  duties  again." — Mrs.  Ewing. 


LIZZIE  was  waiting  for  Lady  Adela.  She  had  finished 
her  work  for  the  day,  had  come  from  her  own  room 
to  Lady  Adela's  and  now  stood  at  one  of  the  high  windows 
looking  down  upon  the  April  sunshine  that  coloured  the  digni' 
ties  of  Portland  Place. 

The  room  was  spacious  and  lofty,  but  curiously  uncomfort' 
able  and  lifeless.  High  book-cases  with  glass  shutters  re- 
vealed rows  of  "  Comhill "  and  "  Blackwood  "  volumes,  a  long 
rather  low  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth  held  a  silver  ink- 
stand, a  blotting-pad,  pens  and  a  calendar.  There  were  stiff 
mahogany  chairs  ranged  against  the  wall  and  old  prints  of 
Beaminster  House  (white-pillared,  spacious  with  sloping 
lawns)  and  Eton  College  chapel  faced  the  windows. 

This  was  where  Lady  Adela  spent  several  hours  of  every 
morning  and  she  had  never  attempted  to  "  do "  anything 
with  it.  A  large  marble  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  ticked  out 
its  sublime  indifference  to  time  and  change.  "  We're  the 
same,  thank  God,"  it  said,  "  as  we've  always  been." 

Lady  Adela  had  told  Lizzie  that  she  would  come  in  from  a 
drive  at  quarter  to  four  and  she  would  like  then  to  speak 
to  her. 

Lizzie's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Portland  Place,  deserted  for 
the  moment  and  catching  in  its  shining  surface  some  hint  of 
the  blue  sky  above  it.  There  was  a  great  deal  just  then  to 
occupy  her  thoughts.  Ten  days  ago,  in  the  middle  of  a  little 
dinner-party  that  Lady  Adela  was  giving,  upstairs  the  Duchesa 

454 


LIZZIE  BECOMES  MISS  EAInD  AGAIls      455 

had  had  a  stroke.  Lizzie  had,  of  course,  not  been  there,  but, 
coming  next  morning  she  had  been  told  of  it  Her  Grace 
was  soon  well  again,  no  unhappy  effects  could  be  discovered, 
she  had  not,  herself,  been  apparently  disturbed  by  it,  but  it 
had  rung,  like  a  warning  bell,  through  the  house.  "  The 
beginning  of  the  end.  .  .  .  We've  been  watching,  we've  been 
waiting  —  soon  these  walls  will  be  ours  again,"  said  the  por- 
traits of  those  stiff  and  superior  Beaminsters. 

News  ran  through  the  Beaminster  camp  — "  The  Duchess 
has  had  a  stroke.  .  .  .  The  Duchess  has  had  a  stroke." 

But,  for  many  weeks  now,  Lizzie  had  been  aware  that  some 
crisis  had  found  its  hour.  Eachel  and  her  husband.  Lady 
Adela  and  Lord  John,  even  the  Duke  and  Lord  Richard  had 
been  involved.  It  was  not  her  business  to  ask  questions,  but 
every  morning  that  saw  her  sitting  down  to  her  day's  work 
saw  her  also  wondering  whether  it  would  be  her  last  in  that 
house.  .  .  . 

Lady  Adela,  however  sharply  she  may  have  changed  in 
herself,  had  never  permitted  her  relationship  to  Lizzie  to  be 
drawn  any  closer.  When  Lizzie  had  returned  from  that 
terrible  Christmas  at  Seddon,  Lady  Adela  had  asked  her  no 
questions,  had  shown  no  sign  of  human  anxiety  or  tenderness. 
She  had  never,  during  all  the  years  that  Lizzie  had  been 
with  her,  expressed  gratitude  or  satisfaction.  She  had,  on 
the  other  hand,  never  bullied  nor  lost  her  temper  with  her. 
She  had  separated  herself  from  all  expression  or  human 
emotion.  And  yet  Lizzie  liked  her.  She  would  miss  her 
when  their  association  ended :  yes,  she  would  miss  her,  and  the 
house  and  the  whole  Beaminster  interest  when  the  end 
came. 

She  wondered,  as  she  stood  at  the  window,  whether  that 
old  woman  upstairs  were  suffering,  what  her  struggle  against 
extinction  was  costing  her,  how  urgently  she  was  protesting 
against  the  passing  of  time  and  the  death  of  her  generation. 
Flying  galleons  of  silver  clouds  caught  the  sun  and  Portland 
Place  passed  into  shadow;  the  bell  of  the  Round  Church 


456  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

began  to  ring.  "  Poor  old  thing,"  thought  Lizzie ;  she  would 
not  have  considered  her  thus,  a  year  ago. 

Lady  Adela  came  in;  she  reminded  Lizzie  of  Mrs.  Noah 
in  her  stiff  wooden  hat,  her  stiff  wooden  clothes,  her  anxiety 
to  prevent  any  mobility  that  might  give  her  away.  She 
looked,  as  she  always  did,  carefully  about  the  room,  at  the 
"  Comhills  "  and  "  Blackwoods,"  at  the  marble  clock,  at  the 
prints  of  Beaminster  House  and  Eton  College  Chapel,  a  little 
as  though  she  would  ascertain  that  no  enemy,  no  robber,  no 
brigand,  no  outlaw,  was  concealed  about  the  premises,  a  little 
as  though  she  would  say  — "  Well,  these  things  are  all  right 
anyway,  nothing  wrong  here." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Miss  Eand,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  that  I  haven*t 
kept  you." 

"  'No,  thank  you.  Lady  Adela,  I  have  only  just  finished." 

Lady  Adela  sat  down;  they  discussed  correspondence, 
trivial  things  that  were,  Lizzie  knew,  placed  as  a  barrier 
against  something  that  frightened  her. 

At  length  it  came. 

"  Miss  Rand,  I  wonder  whether  —  the  fact  is,  my  mother 
has  just  decided  that  she  wishes  to  be  moved  to  Beaminster 
House.  I  must  of  course  go  with  her.  I  hope  that  this 
will  not  inconvenience  you.  You  can,  if  you  prefer  not  to 
leave  your  mother,  come  down  every  day  by  train;  it  only 
takes  an  hour.     Just  as  you  please.  .  .  ." 

Lizzie's  heart  was  strangely,  poignantly  stirred.  Tho 
moment  had  come  then ;  the  house  was  to  be  deserted.  This 
could  only  mean  the  end.  She  herself  would  never  return 
here,  her  little  room,  the  large  solemn  house,  that  walk  from 
Saxton  Square,  the  Round  Church,  the  Queen's  Hall,  Regent's 
Park.  ... 

But  she  gave  no  sign. 

Gravely  she  replied :  "  I  think  I'd  better  come  down  with 
you.  Lady  Adela,  if  you  don't  mind.  My  mother  has  my 
sister.     Perhaps  I  might  come  up  for  the  week-ends." 

"  Yes,     That  would  be  quite  easy.     The  other  places,  you 


LIZZIE  BECOMES  MISS  RAND  AGAIN      457 

know,  are  let,  but  Beaminster  has  always  been  kept.  The 
Duke  has  been  there  a  good  deal.  It  reminds  me  ...  I 
was  there  for  some  years  as  a  girl." 

Lizzie  realized  that  Lady  Adela  was  very  near  to  tears; 
she  had  never  before  seen  her,  in  any  way,  moved.  She  was 
distressed  and  uncomfortable.  It  was  as  though  Lady  Adela 
were,  suddenly,  after  all  these  years,  about  to  be  driven  from 
a  position  that  had  seemed,  in  its  day,  impregnabla 

"  Oh !  don't,  please  don't,  now !  "  was  Lizzie's  silent  cry. 
"  It  will  spoil  it  all  —  all  these  years." 

Lady  Adela  didn't.  Her  voice  became  dry  and  hard,  her 
eyes  without  expression. 

"  We  shall  go  down,  I  expect,  on  Monday  if  Dr.  Chris- 
topher thinks  that  a  good  day." 

"  I  hope  that  the  Duchess " 

"  My  mother's  very  well  to-day  —  quite  her  old  self.  I 
have  just  been  up  with  her.  It  is  odd,  but  for  thirty  years 
she  has  never  expressed  any  interest  in  Beaminster.  Now  she 
is  impatient  to  be  there." 

"  One  often,  I  think,  has  a  sudden  longing  for  places." 

"  Yes.     I  shall  be  glad  myself  to  be  there  again." 

"This  house?" 

"  Oh !  we  shall  shut  it  up  —  for  the  time  Lord  John  will 
come  down  to  Beaminster  with  us.  I  have  spoken  to  Norris, 
but  to-morrow  morning,  if  you  don't  mind,  we  will  go  through 
things." 

"  Certainly." 

"  The  house  has  not  been  shut  for  a  great  number  of  years 
—  a  very  great  number.  During  the  last  thirty  years  through 
the  hottest  weather  my  mother  was  here. 

"  It  will  seem  strange  .  .  ."     Her  voice  trembled. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  this  afternoon  ?  "  Lizzie  turned 
to  the  door. 

"  No,  I  think  not.  Except  —  perhaps  .  .  ."  Lady  Adela 
was  in  great  agitation.  Her  eyes  sought  Lizzie,  beseeching 
her  help. 


468  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  Miss  Rand  —  I  think  it  only  right  to  say.  I'm  afraid 
one  cannot  —  in  the  nature  of  things  —  it's  impossible,  I  fear, 
to  expect  —  my  mother  to  live  very  much  longer."  Her  voice 
caught  in  a  dry  strangled  cough.  "  Dr.  Christopher  has 
warned  us.  After  my  mother's  death  my  life,  of  course,  will 
5>e  very  different.  I  shall  live  very  quietly  —  a  good  deal  in 
the  country  and  abroad,  I  expect. 

"  I  shall  not,  of  course,  have  a  secretary." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  said  Lizzie  quietly. 

"  I  want  you  to  know.  Miss  Rand,"  Lady  Adela  continued, 
"  that  although  during  all  these  years  I  have  seemed  very 
unappreciative.  ...  It  is  not  my  way  —  I  find  it  difficult 
to  express  —  But  I  have,  nevertheless,  been  very  conscious  — 
we  have  all  been  —  of  the  things  that  you  have  done  for  me, 
indeed  for  the  whole  house.  You  have  been  admirable; 
quite  admirable." 

"  I  have  been  very  happy  here,"  said  Lizzie. 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  that.  I  must  have  seemed  often  very 
blind  to  all  that  you  were  doing.  But  I  should  like  you  to 
know  that  it  is  more  —  it  is  more  —  than  simply  your  duty  to 
the  house  —  it  is  the  many  things  that  you  have  done  per- 
sonally for  me.  You  have  not  yourself  been,  I  dare  say, 
aware  of  the  effect  that  your  company  has  had  upon  me.  It 
has  been  very  great." 

Lizzie  smiled.  "  I've  loved  the  house  and  the  work.  It 
has  meant  a  very  important  part  of  my  life.  I  shall  never 
forget  it." 

Their  embarrassment  was  terrible.  After  a  moment  of 
struggle  Lady  Adela's  voice  was  hard  and  unconcerned  again. 
"  You  know,  Miss  Rand,  that  —  when  the  time  comes  for  this 
change  —  anything  that  I,  or  any  of  us,  can  do  ...  I  do  not 
know  what  your  own  plans  may  be,  but  you  need  have  no 
fear,  I  think." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Lady  Adela.     That  is  very  kind.*' 

There  was  a  little  pause  —  then  they  said  good  night. 

As  Lizzie  went  down  the  great  staircase,  on  every  «ide  of 


LIZZIE  BECOMES  MISS  BAND  AGAIN      459 

her,  the  stones  of  the  house  were  whispering,  "  You're  all 
going  —  you're  all  going  —  you're  all  going." 
Her  heart  wao  very  sad. 

n 

As  she  passed  the  Regent  Street  Post  Office  Francis  Breton 
came  out  of  it.  They  had  not  met  often  lately,  but  she  was 
conscious  that  ever  since  that  interview  in  Regent's  Park, 
they  had  been  very  good  friends.  Her  absorption  with 
Rachel  and  affairs  in  the  Portland  Place  house  had  assisted 
her  own  resolution  and  she  had  thought  that  she  could  meet 
him  now  without  a  tremor.  Nevertheless  the  tremor  came  as 
she  caught  sight  of  him  there  and,  for  a  moment,  the  traffic 
and  the  shouting  died  away  and  there  was  a  great  stillness. 

He  was  very  glad  to  see  her.  He  stood  on  the  post  office 
steps  looking  richer  and  smarter  than  she  had  ever  known 
him.  He  wore  a  dark  blue  suit  and  a  black  tie  and  a  bowler 
hat  —  all  ordinary  garments  enough  —  but  they  surrounded 
him  with  an  air  of  prosperity  that  had  not  been  his  before. 
He  seemed  to  her  to  gleam  and  glitter  and  shine  with  confi- 
dence and  assurance.  One  hurried  glimpse  she  had  had  of 
him  some  weeks  before,  miserable,  unkempt,  almost  furtive. 
She  was  glad  for  his  sake  that  all  was  well  with  him,  but  he 
needed  her  more  when  he  was  unhappy.  .  .  . 

But  he  was  delighted.  "Miss  Rand.  That's  splendid! 
Are  you  going  back  to  Saxton  Square  now  ?  The  very  thing ! 
I've  been  wanting  badly  to  see  you !  "  It  was  always,  she 
thought,  in  little  hurried  and  occasional  walks  that  they 
exchanged  their  confidences.  There  was  not  much  to  show 
for  all  the  elaborate  palace  that  she  had  once  been  building  — = 
snatches  of  conversation,  clutches  at  words  and  movements, 
even  eloquent  interpretation  of  silences  —  well,  she  was  wiser 
than  all  that  now ! 

But,  when  they  started  off  together,  she  found  that  she 
was  caught  up  instantly  into  that  fine  assumption  of  intimacy 
that  was  one  of  his  most  alluring  qualities.     Radiant  though 


460  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

he  was  he  still  needed  her;  he  was  more  eager  to  talk  to 
her  than  to  anyone  else  even  though  he  had  forgotten  her  very 
existence  until  he  saw  her  standing  there. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  should  have  come  down  and 
tried  to  find  you,  anyway,  in  a  day  or  two.  I've  been  through 
a  rotten  time  —  really  rotten  —  and  one  doesn't  want  to  see 
anyone  —  even  one's  best  friends  —  in  that  sort  of  condition, 
does  one  ? " 

"  That's  just  the  time  your  real  friends  —  if  they're  worth 
anything  —  want  to  see  you.     If  they  can  be  of  any  use " 

"  But  you'd  been  such  a  tremendous  help  to  me.  I  was 
ashamed  to  come  to  you  any  more.  Besides,  you'd  showed 
me,  in  a  way,  that  I  ought  to  get  through  on  my  own  without 
asking  help  from  anyone.  You'd  taught  me  that.  I  did 
try." 

She  saw  that  he  was  shining  with  the  glory  of  one  who  had 
come,  rather  mightily,  unaided  through  times  of  stress.  A 
pleasant  self-congratulatory  pathos  stirred  behind  his  words. 
"  It  was  a  bad  time  —  but  it's  all  right  now.  And  I  expect  it 
was  good  for  me,*'  was  really  what  he  said. 

"I  do  want  to  tell  you,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  "  about 
Eachel.  It's  all  been  so  strange  —  wonderful  in  a  way. 
After  that  talk  I  had  with  you  in  the  park  I  was  absolutely 
broken  up.  Oh!  but  done  for!  I  simply  went  under.  I 
tried  to  go  back  to  some  of  that  old  set  I've  told  you  about  be- 
fore, but  the  awful  thing  was  that  Rachel  wouldn't  let  me. 
Thinking  of  her,  wanting  her  when  all  those  other  women  were 
about.     It  simply  wasn't  possible.  .  .  . 

"  It  got  worse  and  worse.  I  thought  I'd  go  off  my  head. 
Then  —  do  you  remember  that  awful  thunderstorm  we 
had?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lizzie,  "  I  remember  it  very  well." 

"  That  night  was  a  kind  of  climax.  I'd  dined  with  Chris- 
topher, then  got  wandering  about  —  it  was  horribly  close  and 
heavy  —  got  into  some  music  hall.  I  suppose  I'd  been  drink- 
ing —  anyway,  I  had  suddenly  a  kind  of  vision,  there  in  the 


LIZZIE  BECOMES  MISS  RAKD  AGAII^      461 

music  hall.  I  thought  Rachel  was  dead,  that  I'd  lost  her 
altogether.  And  then  —  it's  all  so  hard  to  explain  —  but 
when  I  came  to  myself  I  seemed  to  understand  that  the  only 
way  I  could  keep  her  was  by  giving  her  up.  .  .  .  I've  got  it  all 
muddled,  but  that  was  what  it  came  to." 

"  You  were  quite  right,"  said  Lizzie. 

"  Well,  then  —  what  do  you  think  happened  ?  The  very 
next  day  my  uncle,  John  Beaminster,  came  to  see  me  — 
yes,  came  himself.  Talked  and  was  most  pleasant  and 
wanted  to  be  friends.  At  the  same  time  —  now  just  listen  to 
this  —  came  a  note  from  Seddon  asking  me  to  go  and  see  him. 
I  went,  found  Rachel  there.  Apparently  my  delightful 
grandmother  had  been  telling  him  stories  about  Rachel  and 
me,  and  he  wanted  to  put  things  straight.  As  though  this 
weren't  enough,  right  upon  us,  without  a  word  of  warning, 
dropped  my  grandmother  herself !  " 

He  stopped  that  he  might  convey  fully  to  Lizzie  the  drama 
of  the  occasion. 

There  was,  in  his  words,  just  that  touch  of  absurdity  and 
exaggeration  that  she  had  noticed  at  her  very  first  meeting 
with  him.  He  was  always  too  passionately  anxious  to  thrill 
his  audience  I 

"  There  was  a  scene !  You  can  imagine  it !  We  all 
tried  to  behave  at  first,  although  of  course  it  was  immensely 
diflScult.  I  don't  think  Seddon  had  in  the  least  realized  the 
kind  of  thing  it  would  be.  Then  she  —  the  old  tyrant  — 
could  contain  herseK  no  longer  and  burst  out  concerning  me, 
the  blackguard  I  was  and  the  rest  of  it.  She  was  furious,  you 
see,  at  Seddon  taking  my  friendship  with  Rachel  so  quietly. 
He  was  splendid  about  it ! 

"  Well,  when  she  burst  out  about  all  the  family  cutting  me 
and  everybody  casting  me  out,  the  opportunity  was  too  good. 
I  covldnt  help  it.  I  had  to  tell  her  that  Uncle  John  had  been 
round  that  very  afternoon  to  see  me  and  that  the  family  was 
holding  out  its  arms." 

"  What  happened  ?  "  said  Lizzie,  as  he  paused. 


462  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  She  collapsed  —  altogether,  completely.  She  never  said 
another  word  —  she  just  went." 

"  You  shouldn't  have  done  it !  "  Lizzie  cried,  turning  al- 
most furiously  upon  him.  "  Oh !  it  was  cruel  —  she  was  so 
old  and  all  of  you  so  young  and  strong." 

"  Yes !  "  he  answered  her  — "  But  think  of  the  years  that 
I've  waited  —  the  times  she's  given  me,  the  suffering " 

"  Ko,"  interrupted  Lizzie,  quiet  again  now.  "  If  you're 
weak  enough  to  be  pushed  down  by  anybody  like  that,  then 
you're  weak  enough  to  sink  by  your  own  fault,  whether 
there's  anyone  there  or  no.  She's  been  hard  in  her  time,  I 
dare  say,  but  everything's  left  her  now  and  she's  ill  and  lonely. 
It  was  wrong  of  all  of  you.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  Sir 
Roderick " 

"  He  only  wanted  things  to  be  straightened  out,"  Breton 
said  eagerly.  "  He  didn't  intend  to  have  a  scene.  But  I 
expect  you're  right,  Miss  Rand,  as  you  always  are.  I've  been 
a  brute,  the  most  howling  cad.  But  there's  one  thing  —  I 
don't  think  it's  hurt  my  grandmother.  She  likes  those  scenes, 
and  she's  been  none  the  worse  since." 

"  She's  been  much  worse,"  said  Lizzie  gravely.  ^'  She's 
dying  —  She's  going  down  to  Beaminster  on  Monday." 

He  stopped.  "  Oh !  but  I'm  sorry  .  .  .  That's  dreadful 
.  .  .  I'd  no  idea.     I'm  always  responsible " 

He  had  sunk  to  such  depths  that  she  was  compelled  to 
raise  him. 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  be  disturbed,  Mr.  Breton.  Some- 
thing of  the  sort  would  have  been  certain  to  happen  very 
soon.  She  would  have  found  out  in  any  case  .  .  ,  and  there 
were  other  things,  I  know.     Rachel " 

"  Ah !  "  he  broke  in,  eager  again  and  almost  cheerful. 
"  That  was  the  wonderful  thing.  When  I  saw  her  there  first 
with  Seddon  —  I'd  never  met  him  before,  you  know  —  I  felt 
angry  and  impatient.  I  wanted  to  carry  her  off  — -  away  from 
everybody.  And  then,  when  Seddon  began  to  speak  I  lost 
all  sense  of  Rachel's  belonging  to  me.     She  seemed  older,  ever 


JLIZZIE  BECOMES  MISS  RAND  AGAIN      463 

so  far  away  from  him,  and  he  was  so  fine,  so  splendid  about 
it  all  that  I  felt  —  I  felt  —  well,  that  I'd  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  both  of  them  —  but  never  anything  that  could  sep- 
arate them  or  make  him  unhappy." 

"  You  can't  separate  them  now,"  said  Lizzie,  "  nobody 
can." 

"  No.  It  was  just  finished  —  our  episode  together  that 
wasn't  really  an  episode  at  all  if  you  consider  the  little  that 
we  saw  one  another.  .  .  .  Besides,  I've  never  got  near  Rachel, 
and  I  felt  in  some  way  that  the  nearer  I  got  to  her  the  farther 
away  she  was.  Why,  the  only  time  that  I  kissed  her  she  was 
the  farthest  away  of  all !  " 

They  were  walking  up  the  grey,  peaceful  square. 

"  You  don't  mind  my  telling  you  all  this,  do  you.  Miss 
Rand  ?  You've  seen  it  aU  from  the  beginning.  But  I'm  odd 
in  a  way.  .  .  . 

"  Uncle  John  coming  to  me,  Seddon  being  friendly  to  me, 
the  family  taking  me  back  .  .  .  that  seems  to  have  made 
all  the  difference  to  me.  Although  I'd  never  confess  it,  even 
to  myself,  I  know  that  if  Rachel  and  I  had  gone  off  together 
I'd  never  have  been  happy.  You  see,  we're  both  alike  that 
way.  We're  restless,  one  half  of  us,  but  oh !  we're  Beaminster 
the  other,  and  even  Rachel,  who's  been  fighting  the  family 
all  her  days,  has  one  part  of  her  that's  happy  to  be  married  to 
Seddon  and  to  be  quiet  and  proper  and  English.  That's 
why  neither  I  nor  Seddon  ever  could  hold  her  —  because  to  be 
with  me  she'd  have  had  to  give  up  the  other.  If  she  had  a 
child,  that  might " 

**  She's  going  to  have  a  child !  "  said  Lizzie. 

He  stopped  and  stared  at  her. 

"  Miss  Rand !  ...  Is  that  certain  ?  " 

"  Quite." 

"  Ah,  well,  Seddon's  got  her  all  right  They'll  be  happy  as 
anything."  He  sighed.  "  You  know.  Miss  Rand,  Rachel 
and  I  have  been  fighting  the  old  lady,  and  we  seem  to  have 
won  .  .  .  but  I'm  not  sure  whether,  after  all,  she  hasn't !  " 


464  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

On  the  step  he  paused. 

*'  I'm  sticking  to  Candles,  I've  got  work.  I'm  recognized 
again.  I've  got  that  little  bit  of  Rachel  that  she  gave  me  and 
that  nobody  else  can  have,  and  —  I've  got  you  for  a  friend  — • 
Not  so  bad  after  all !  " 

He  laughed,  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  then  as  they 
stood  in  the  dark  little  hall  he  said : 

"  All  along  you've  been  such  a  friend  for  me.  I  want 
someone  like  you  —  someone  strong  and  sensible,  without  my 
rotten  sentiment  and  impulses.  We'll  always  be  friends, 
won't  we  ?  " 

He  held  her  hand. 

"  Always,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 

But,  perhaps,  to  both  of  them  there  came,  just  then,  sighing 
through  the  dark  still  hall,  a  breath,  a  whisper,  of  that  hour 
when  life  had  been  at  its  intensest,  that  hour  when  Breton  had 
held  Eachel  in  his  arms,  that  hour  when  Lizzie  had  dressed, 
with  trembling  hands,  for  the  theatre.  .  .  . 

Eor  Breton  his  place  once  again  in  the  world,  for  Lizzie 
work  and  peace  of  heart,  but  once  on  a  day  life  had  flamed 
before  both  of  them  and  they  would  never  forget  — 

"  Well,  good  night,  Mr.  Breton." 

"  Good  night,  Miss  Band." 

When  he  had  gone,  she  stood  in  the  hall  a  moment. 

Their  little  dialogue  had  closed,  with  the  sound  of  a  closing 
door,  a  stage  in  her  life.  She  would  never  be  the  same  as  she 
had  been  before  that  episode.  It  had  shown  her  that  she  was 
as  romantic  as  the  rest  of  the  world.  It  had  made  her  kinder, 
tenderer,  wiser.  And  now  once  again  she  was  independent  — 
once  again  her  soul  was  her  own.  She  could  be,  once  more, 
his  friend,  seeing  him  with  all  his  faults,  his  impetuosities,  his 
Weak  impulses. 

Her  place  was  there  for  her  to  fill.  It  was  not  the  place 
that  she  would  once  have  chosen.  But  she  had  regained  her 
soul,  had  once  more  control  of  her  spirit.     She  was  free. 


LIZZIE  BECOMES  MISS  RAND  AGAm      465 

There  stretched  before  her  a  world  of  work,  of  thrilling  and 
ever-changing  interest.  There  were  Rachel  and  Rachel's 
baby.  .  .  . 

"  You  seem  in  very  good  spirits,  Lizzie,"  said  Mrs.  Rand  as 
she  came  in.  "  I'm  sure  I'm  very  glad  because  it's  too  tire- 
some.    Here's  Daisy  gone  off.  .  .  ." 

in 

Afterwards  she  said  to  her  mother : 

"  I'm  going  down  to  Beaminster  on  Monday.  I'm  afraid 
I  shall  be  away  some  time." 

"  Oh !  Lizzie !  "  said  Mrs.  Rand  reproachfully.  "  Well, 
now  —  That  is  a  pity.     Why  must  you  ?  " 

"  The  Duchess  is  going  and  Lady  Adela  must  go  with  her 
and  I  must  go  with  Lady  Adela." 

"  Dear,  dear.  Whatever  shall  we  do,  Daisy  and  I  ?  Daisy 
gets  idler  every  day.  It's  always  clothes  with  her  now.  .  .  . 
I  suppose  we  shall  manage." 

"  I  shall  come  up  for  week-ends." 

"  What  a  way  you  speak  of  it !  Of  course  you  don't  care ! 
If  you  went  away  for  years  you  wouldn't  miss  us,  I  dare  say. 
I  can't  think  why  it  is,  Lizzie,  that  you're  always  so  hard. 
Daisy  and  I  have  got  plenty  of  feeling  and  emotion  and  your 
father,  poor  man,  had  more  than  he  could  manage.  But 
I'm  sure  more's  better  than  none  at  all,  where  feelings  are 
concerned." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Lizzie,  speaking  to  more  than  her 
mother,  "  that  if  everyone  had  so  much  feeling  there'd  be  no- 
body to  give  the  advice.     Feelings  don't  suit  everybody." 

"  You're  a  strange  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Rand,  "  and  you're  like 
no  one  in  our  family.  All  your  aunts  and  uncles  are  kind  and 
friendly.  I  don't  suggest  that  you  don't  do  your  best,  Lizzie. 
You  do,  I'm  sure  —  and  nobody  could  deny  that  you've  got  a 
head  for  figures  and  running  a  house.  But  a  little 
heart  .  .  ." 


466  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

"  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  I'm  better  without  any," 
Lizzie  laughed.  "  I  expect  I'm  more  like  you  and  Daisy, 
mother,  than  you  know " 

"  Well,  you're  a  strange  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Rand  again,  "  and 
I  never  imderstand  half  you  say." 

Lizzie  came  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  You  always  miss  me,  you  know,  mother,  when  I'm  away, 
in  spite  of  my  hard  heart." 

"  Well,  that's  true,"  said  Mrs.  Eand,  looking  at  her  daugh- 
ter with  wide  and  rather  tearful  eyes.  "  But  I'm  sure  I  don*4 
know  why  I  do-" 


R 


CHAPTEK  XI 

THE  LAST  VIEW  FROM  HIGH  WINDOWS 

"Not  without  fortitude  I  wait  .  .  . 
...  I,  in  this  house  so  rifted,  marr'd. 
So  ill  to  live  in,  hard  to  leave; 
I,  so  star-weary,   over-warr'd. 
That  have  no  joy  in  this  your  day." 

Francis  Thompson, 


ACHEL,  on  the  morning  of  April  28tli,  received  this 
letter  from  Lady  Adela: 

"  BEAMOrSTEtB  HOUSEI, 

April  27th. 


My  dear  EacheI,, 

Mother  suddenly  last  night  expressed  an  urgent 
■wish  to  see  you.  She  has  not  been  at  all  well  during  the 
last  few  days  and  Dr.  Christopher,  who  has  been  here  since 
last  Saturday,  says  that  if  you  can  come  down  and  see  her 
he  thinks  that  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  her.  She  is  sleep- 
ing very  badly,  but  is  wonderfully  tranquil  and  seems  to 
like  to  be  here  again. 

If  you  can  come  down  to-morrow  afternoon  I  will  send 
to  meet  the  5.32  at  Ryston.  That  is  quicker  than  going 
round  to  Munckston.  If  I  don't  hear  I  conclude  that  you 
are  coming  by  that  train. 

My  love  to  Roddy. 

Your  affectionate  aunt, 
Adela  Beaminstee." 

Eachel  showed  the  letter  to  Roddy. 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  she  said,  "  I've  been  hoping  that  she'd  send 
for  me.     I've  felt,  ever  since  that  day,  that  I  should  never 

467 


468  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

be  easy  again  if  I  hadn't  the  chance  to  tell  her  that  I  see 
now  that  I  —  that  we  —  were  wrong." 

"  She's  never  answered  my  letter,"  said  Eoddy.  "  Per- 
haps she  wasn't  well  enough  to  write.  Yes,  I'm  glad  you're 
going,  Rachel." 

She  was  moved  by  many  emotions,  the  old  lady  dying,  the 
house  in  whose  shadow  she  had  spent  so  many  of  her  timid, 
angry,  adventurous  young  years,  the  thrill  that  the  thought 
of  her  child  gave  her  now  at  every  vision  of  the  world,  the 
knowledge  that  in  Roddy  she,  at  last,  had  someone  in  her  life 
to  whom,  after  every  absence,  however  short,  she  was  eager  to 
return  —  these  things  shone  with  new,  wonderful  lights 
around  her  journey. 

The  April  evenings  were  lengthening  and  the  dusks  were 
warm  and  scented.  The  little  station  lay  peacefully  in  the 
heart  of  green  fields ;  across  the  sky,  washed  clean  of  every 
colour,  a  dark  train  of  birds  slowly,  lazily  took  their  flight, 
trees  were  dim  with  edges  sharp  against  the  sky-line,  a  dog 
barking  in  the  distance  gave  rhythm  to  the  stillness.  Rachel, 
driving  through  the  falling  dark,  felt,  as  she  had  felt  it  when 
she  was  a  small  child,  the  august  colour  and  space  and  dignity 
of  the  first  vision  of  the  great  house,  white  as  a  ghost  now 
under  the  first  stars,  speaking  to  her  with  the  old  voice,  foun- 
tains that  splashed  in  gardens,  the  river  that  ran  at  the  end 
of  the  sloping  lawns,  the  chiming  clock  that  rang  out  the 
hour  as  she  drove  up  to  the  door. 

Aunt  Adela,  Uncle  John,  Dr.  Chris,  Lizzie,  they  were  all 
there,  and  their  presences  made  less  chill  the  dominating 
reason  for  their  assembly. 

Over  all  the  house  the  shadow  fell.  The  wide,  high  rooms, 
the  long  picture  gallery,  the  comfortless  grandeur  of  a  house 
that  had  not  found,  for  some  years,  many  human  creatures  to 
lighten  it,  these  echoed  and  flung  forwards  and  backwards 
the  note  of  suspense,  of  pause,  of  impending  crisis. 

But  Rachel  spent  one  of  the  happiest  evenings  of  her  life 
with  Uncle  John  and  Christopher.     She  knew  that  Uncle 


LAST  VIEW  FROM  HIGH  WINDOWS       469 

John  had  had  a  short  but  terrible  interview  with  her  grand- 
mother, that  he  had  been  charged  with  treachery  and  dis- 
honour and  every  traitorous  wickedness. 

A  week  ago,  when  he  had  told  her  this,  he  had  been  the 
picture  of  despair  and  shame.  "  I  hadn't  meant  her  to  know. 
She  wasn't  to  come  into  it  at  all.  And  then  that  she  should 
meet  him  at  Eoddy's  on  that  very  afternoon.  .  .  .  There's 
nothing  bad  enough  for  me."  But  he  had  added  with  a 
strange  note  of  defiance  so  unlike  the  old  Uncle  John :  "  I 
had  felt  it  my  duty,  Rachel  ...  to  speak  to  Francis.  I  had 
felt  it  the  right  thing  to  do.     I  had  felt  it  very  strongly." 

Then  he  had  been  overwhelmed,  now  he  was  once  more  at 
peace,  and  tranquil. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  told  Rachel.  "  I've  been  forgiven.  I 
think  she's  forgiven  all  of  us. 

"  She  wouldn't  listen  when  I  wanted  to  tell  her  how  sorry 
I  was.     She  seems  now  not  to  care." 

"  She's  never  forgiven  anyone  anything  before,"  said 
Rachel. 

"  Hush,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  that. 
We've  never  understood  her,  any  of  us.  She's  always  been 
beyond  us.  You'll  realize  to-morrow,  Rachel,  how  wonder- 
ful, how  wonderful  she  is !  " 

But  he  was  very  happy.  He  had  his  old  Rachel  back,  the 
old  Rachel  whom  he  had  expected  never  to  see  again.  She 
sat  between  him  and  Christopher,  at  dinner,  no  longer  fierce 
and  ironical,  with  sudden  silences  and  swift  angers,  but  affec- 
tionate, sympathetic,  happy. 

"  Mother  will  see  you  to-morrow,"  Adela  told  her.  "  She's 
glad  that  you've  come.  The  morning's  rather  a  bad  time  for 
her.     Could  you  stay  for  the  whole  day  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  Rachel  said. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening  she  went  up  to  Lizzie's  room ; 
when  midnight  rang  from  the  tower  they  parted,  but  first, 
Rachel  said: 

"  Lizzie,  I  wonder  whether  you  realize  what  you've  been  — 


470  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

to  all  of  us  —  to  me  of  course  .  .  .  but  to  the  others  —  to 
the  whole  family." 

"Oh!     Nonsense!" 

"  Roddy  was  speaking  about  it  yesterday.  He  said  that 
you  were  the  most  wonderful  person  in  all  the  world  for 
making  all  the  difference  without  saying  or  doing  anything  — 
by  just  being  there." 

"  Oh,  Eoddy  thinks  everybody " 

"  But  this  is  what  I'm  coming  to.  You  can't  yourself 
know  how  much  difference  you  make  to  everyone.  But  there's 
just  this.  .  .  .  Eoddy  feels  and  I  feel  that  when  —  He  — 
comes  (of  course  it'll  be  a  boy)  we'd  rather  have  you  for  his 
friend  than  anyone  in  the  whole  world.  You  will  —  you  will 
be,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear  —  I  should  think  so.  I'll  whack  him  and  bath 
him  and  snub  him  and  teach  him  his  letters  —  anything  you 
like."     Then  she  added,  rather  gravely: 

"  There's  one  thing,  Eachel,  I've  wanted  to  say  for  some 
time.  I  want  you  to  know  definitely,  that  all  wounds  are 
closed  now,  everything's  healed  —  about  Mr.  Breton,  I  mean. 
I  was  afraid  that  you  might  think  I  still  cared.  .  .  .  That's 
all  ended,  closed  up,  that  little  episode. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid,  Eachel.  I'm  happier,  I'm  freer 
than  I've  ever  been  in  my  life.  .  .  .  Good  night,  my  dear. 
Your  friendship  is  more  to  me  than  any  number  of  heart- 
burnings. ...  I  was  always  meant  to  be  independent,  you 
know.  ,  .  ." 

n 

It  was  very  strange  to  Eachel,  who  had  been,  on  so  many, 
many  evenings,  to  that  other  room,  to  pause  now  outside  this 
new  door,  to  knock  with  the  house  solemn  and  still  around 
her,  to  hear  Dorchester's  voice,  then,  with  the  old  hesitation 
and  —  yes  —  with  some  of  the  old  fear,  to  enter. 

She  had  considered  what  she  would  say.     Coming  down  in 


LAST  VIEW  FEOM  HIGH  WINDOWS       471 

the  train  she  had  turned  it  over  and  over  —  her  apology,  her 
submission,  her  cry :  "  See,  I'm  different  —  utterly  different 
from  the  Kachel  whom  you  knew.  ...  I  was  a  prig  of  the 
very  worst.  I  deserved  everything  you  thought  of  me.  Just 
say  you  forgive  me  even  though  you  can't  like  me."  This 
was  the  kind  of  thing  that,  in  the  train,  had  seemed  possible 
enough;  now,  with  the  opening  of  the  door  and  that  sharp 
recurrence  of  the  old  thrill,  she  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she 
wanted  to  be  submissive  and  affectionate.  "  I  don't  feel 
fond  of  her  —  nothing  could  make  me  —  there  are  too  many 
things  .  .  ." 

Space  and  silence  saluted  Eachel.  Two  great  mirrors  ran 
from  floor  to  ceiling,  high  windows  flooded  the  room  with 
light  and  everything  seemed  to  be  intended  only  for  such  a 
situation  as  this  —  the  very  house,  the  grounds,  the  colour  of 
the  day  had  arranged  themselves,  in  their  purity  and  air  and 
silence,  about  the  central  figure.  The  Duchess  lay  in  a  long 
low  chair  before  the  window;  she  was  wrapped  in  white 
shawls  and  thick  rugs  covered  her  body ;  Dorchester,  the  same 
stern,  unbending  Dorchester,  said  gravely  to  Rachel,  "  Good 
afternoon,  my  lady.  I  hope  that  you  are  well,"  then  moved 
into  another  room. 

The  Duchess  had  not  stirred  at  the  sound  of  the  closing 
doors,  nor  at  Dorchester's  voice,  nor  at  Rachel's  approach. 
She  was  gazing  out,  beyond  the  windows,  to  the  expanse  of 
sunlit  country,  fields  that  sloped  towards  the  river,  an  orchard, 
white  with  blossom,  running  down  the  hill,  its  colour,  dazzling, 
almost  visibly  trembling  against  the  sky. 

Rachel  had  only  seen  her  in  the  Portland  Place  rooms,  with 
the  china  dragons,  the  gold  ornaments,  the  red  lacquer  bed, 
the  blazing  wall-paper.  It  had  seemed  then  that  she  must 
have  those  things  around  her,  that  she  needed  the  colour  and 
extravagance  to  support  her  flaming  passion  for  life,  so  curbed 
and  shackled  by  disease. 

Their  absence  made  her  older,  feebler,  more  human,  but 


472  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

also  grander  and  more  impressive.  Rachel  had  always  feared 
her,  but  despised  herself  for  her  fear;  now  she  was  in  the 
presence  of  something  that  made  her  proud  to  be  afraid. 

She  thought  that  she  might  be  asleep,  so  she  moved,  very 
quietly,  a  chair  forward  near  the  window  and,  sitting  down, 
waited.  The  only  sound  in  all  the  world  was  the  steady 
splash  —  splash  —  splash  of  the  fountain  below,  the  only 
movement  the  stealthy  creeping  of  the  long  shadows,  flung  by 
white  boulder  clouds,  across  the  shining  fields. 

Suddenly,  without  turning  her  head,  the  Duchess  spoke. 

"  Very  good  of  you,  Rachel.  I  hoped  that  you  would 
come." 

Her  voice  was  weak,  her  words  indistinct  as  though  she 
were  speaking  through  muffled  shawls,  but,  nevertheless,  be- 
hind them  the  presence  of  the  old  dominating  will  was  to  be 
discerned,  but  now  it  was  a  will  quiescent,  struggling  no 
longer  for  power. 

"  I  would  have  come  before  if  you  had  sent  for  me.  I'm 
80  glad  that  you  did." 

"  I  can't  talk  for  very  long,  my  dear,  and  I  don't  suppose 
that  you  want  to  spend  hours  in  my  company  any  more  than 
you've  ever  done.  l!^o,  you  needn't  protest.  We're  neither 
of  us  here  for  compliments.  .  .  .  But  there's  something  that 
I  must  say  to  you.     Christopher  allows  me  half  an  hour." 

"  I  hope  you're  better  —  that  being  here  has  done  you 
good." 

"  Better  ?  ^Nonsense.  I  don't  want  to  be  better.  That's 
all  over  and  done  with.  I  had  another  stroke  three  days  ago 
and  the  next  one  will  finish  me.  So  don't  pretend.  You 
used  to  be  honest  enough.  I've  asked  you  to  come  because  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  about  Roddy." 

"  He  wrote,"  Rachel  said. 

"  Yes.  I  got  his  letter.  I  couldn't  reply.  I  can't  write 
myself  and  I  won't  have  anyone  else  do  it  for  me.  Besides, 
there  was  nothing  to  write  about.  He  said  he  was  sorry  about 
that  little  conversation  we  all  had  together  the  other  day." 


LAST  VIEW  FROM  HIGH  WINDOWS       473 

"  And  I  — "  Rachel  began  eagerly,  "  I  was  so  sorry.  I've 
been  longing  to  tell  you  —  it  was  all  wrong,  but  Roddy  has  no 
imagination.     He  didn't  realize  in  the  least " 

"  Ah,  my  dear.  I  expect  I  know  Roddy  a  great  deal  better 
than  you  do.  He'll  do  the  same  sort  of  thing  to  you,  one  day. 
He's  got  the  devil  in  him  and  will  always  have  it,  however 
much  you  coddle  him  or  let  him  lie  there  thinking  over  his 
sins.  Do  you  suppose  I'd  have  been  so  fond  of  Roddy  all 
these  years  if  I  hadn't  known  him  capable  of  such  little  re- 
venges ?  I  liked  it.  There  was  no  need  to  write  to  me  and  he 
knew  it  —  but  I'm  afraid  you  influence  him  a  good  deal." 

Rachel  coloured.     "  I  hope " 

"  Oh  yes,  you  do,  and  that's  exactly  why  I  wanted  to  see 
you." 

She  turned  then  and,  very  carefully,  very  slowly,  her  eyes 
searched  Rachel's  face. 

"  I  let  him  marry  you,  you  know.  I  thought  it  would  be 
good  for  you.  If  I'd  guessed  the  effect  that  you'd  have  had 
upon  him  I'd  have  prevented  it." 

Rachel's  anger  was  rising. 

"  What  effect  ?  " 

"  He's  begun  to  worry  about  other  people  —  a  fatal  thing 
with  a  man  like  Roddy  who  was  meant  to  do  things,  not 
think  about  them.  But,  anyway,  that's  all  too  late  now.  .  ,  . 
Waste  of  time  discussing  it.  .  .  .  What  I  wanted  you  for  is 
this ^" 

Her  eyes  left  Rachel's  face  and  returned  to  the  window. 

"  You're  the  one  person  now  that  influences  him  and  you 
will  always  be  so.  I  can  see  ahead  well  enough.  Poor 
Roddy  .  .  .  and  he  might  have  been  a  fine  man.  All  the 
same,  I  admire  him  for  it ;  there  are  things  about  you  I  could 
have  liked  if  I'd  wanted  to  find  them,  but  we've  been  fighting 
from  the  beginning  until  now  —  when  it's  the  end  .  .  ." 
She  caught  her  breath,  stayed  for  an  instant  struggling  for 
words,  then  went  on : 

"  We  can  call  a  truce  now.     We  don't  like  one  another, 


474  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

but  just  at  the  moment  you're  moved  a  little  because  I'm 
feeble  and  shall  be  dead  in  a  fortnight.  That  disturbs  you. 
...  It  needn't.  Some  months  ago  a  moment  did  come  when 
I  realized  that  I  should  die  soon.  I  hated  it  —  I  fought  and 
struggled  with  all  my  might  .  .  .  but  now  that  it  has  come 
it  doesn't  matter.  IsTothing  matters.  I  regret  nothing.  I've 
had  my  time.  I  hate  the  new  generation,  the  manly  woman 
and  the  soft  man  with  all  this  sentimental  nonsense  about 
caring  for  other  people.  Think  of  yourself,  fight  for  yourself, 
keep  up  your  pride  —  that's  the  only  way  the  world's  ever 
been  run.  You're  a  sentimentalist  and  you're  making  one  of 
Koddy.  .  .  .  !N"onsense  it  all  is.  .  .  .  But  all  this  isn't  what 
I  really  wanted  to  say."  She  turned  back  and  her  eyes,  as 
again  they  held  Rachel,  were  softer. 

"  Roddy's  been  my  only  weakness.  I've  loved  that  boy  and 
he's  far  too  good  and  fine  for  a  wobbler  like  yourself.  That's 
why  I  hated  it  the  other  day.  I  couldn't  bear  that  he  should 
see  me  beaten  by  the  pair  of  you,  both  of  you  thinking  your- 
selves so  noble  with  your  fine  confessions  —  not  that  I  believe 
a  word  that  you  said  —  but  it  was  clever  of  you.  You  are 
clever  and  know  how  to  manage  men. 

"  Yes,  that  hurt  me,  but  afterwards  I  loved  him  all  the 
better,  I  believe.  I'd  rather  he  hadn't  written  me  that  soppy 
letter,  but  that  was  your  doing,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  listen. 
After  I'm  gone,  I  want  Roddy  to  think  of  me  kindly.  He's 
going  to  think  very  much  what  you  make  him.  It's  in  your 
hands.  You,  when  you've  got  past  this  sentimental  moment, 
will  hate  the  memory  of  me.  It's  natural  that  you  should 
and  I'm  sure  I  don't  mind.  But  I  want  you  to  leave  Roddy 
alone.  If  he  likes  to  think  of  me  kindly,  let  him.  Don't 
blacken  his  mind  to  me.  I  wish  to  feel  —  my  only  weakness 
I  do  believe  —  that  Roddy  will  be  fond  of  my  memory.  That 
rests  with  you." 

She  stopped  with  a  little  final  movement  of  her  head  as 
though,  having  said  what  had  been  in  her  mind  for  a  long 


LAST  VIEW  FROM  HIGH  WINDOWS       475 

while,  she  was  finished,  absolutely,  with  it  all,  and  wanted 
no  word  more  with  any  human  being. 

Rachel  answered  quietly :  "  You've  said  some  rather  hard 
things.  You  mustn't  feel  that  I'd  ever  try  to  make  Roddy 
think  badly  of  you.  That's  not  fair.  .  .  .  I'm  not  very  proud 
of  myself,  but  you  don't  understand  me.  You've  always  been 
determined  not  to  —  and  perhaps,  in  the  same  way,  I've  not 
understood  you.  We're  different  generations,  that's  what  it 
really  is. 

"  But  over  Roddy  we  can  meet.  I  didn't  love  him  when  ] 
married  him,  but  I  do  now,  and  we're  going  to  have  a  child. 
.  .  .  That  will  make  us  both  very  happy,  I  expect.  You  love 
Roddy  and  I  love  him.  You  needn't  be  afraid  that  I'll  harm 
his  memory  of  you." 

Her  voice  was  trembling  and  she  was  very  near  to  tears. 
She  would  have  liked  to  have  said  something  that  would  have 
offered  some  terms  of  peace  between  them,  something  upon 
which,  afterwards,  she  might  look  back  with  comfort.  For 
her  that  hostility  seemed,  in  the  face  of  death,  so  small  and 
poor  a  thing. 

But  no  words  would  come. 

Her  grandmother,  in  a  voice  that  was  very  weak,  said : 

"  Thank  you,  Rachel ;  that's  a  great  relief  to  me.  That's 
good  of  you  .  .  .  and  now,  my  dear,  I  think  Christopher 
would  say  that  I'd  talked  enough.     Good  night." 

Rachel  knew  that  this  was  their  last  meeting,  that  here  was 
the  absolute  conclusion  of  all  the  years  of  warfare  that  there 
had  been  between  them. 

There  was  nothing  to  say.  .  .  .  She  bent  down  and  kissed 
the  dry  cheek,  waited  for  an  instant,  but  there  was  no  move- 
ment. 

"  Good  night,  grandmamma,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  that 
you'll  be  better  to-morrow,"  then  softly  stole  away. 


476  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

m 

The  Duchess  lay  very  still,  watching  the  shadows  as  they 
crept  across  the  fields.  They  were  evening  shadows  now,  for 
the  sky,  pink  like  the  inside  of  a  shell,  had  no  clouds  upon, 
its  surface. 

She  would  not  get  up  again;  this  evening  should  be  the 
last  to  see  her  gaze  upon  the  world.  It  was  too  fatiguing  and 
all  energy  had  flowed  from  her,  leaving  her  without  desire, 
without  passion,  without  regret,  without  fear.  Very  dreamily 
and  at  a  great  distance  figures  and  scenes  from  her  past  life 
hovered,  halted,  and  passed.  But  she  was  not  interested, 
she  had  forgotten  their  purpose  and  meaning,  she  did  not 
want  to  think  any  more. 

The  splashing  of  the  fountain  was  phantasmal  and  very 
far  away. 

The  long  black  shadow  crept  up  the  field.  She  watched 
it.  At  the  top  of  the  red  ridge  of  field,  against  the  sky-line, 
very  sharp  and  clear,  was  a  gate,  golden  now  in  the  sun. 
When  the  shadow  caught  it  she  would  go  to  bed  .  .  .  and 
she  would  never  get  up  again. 

She  waited  lazily,  indifferently.  The  gate  was  caught; 
the  last  gleams  of  the  sun  had  left  the  orchard  and  the  even- 
ing star  glittered  in  a  sky  very  faintly  green. 

She  touched  a  bell  at  her  side  and  Dorchester  appeared. 

"  I'll  go  to  bed,  Dorchester." 

"  Very  well,  Your  Grace." 

"  I  shan't  get  up  again.  Too  much  trouble."  She  turned 
away  from  the  window  and  closed  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XII 

RACHEL,  RODDY,  LORD  JOHN,  CHRISTOPHER 


(( < 


'Everybody  came  in  to  dinner  in  the  best  of  spirits.  .  .  .  Every* 
thing   was   discussed.'" — Inheritance. 


THE  Duchess  of  Wrexe  died  on  the  morning  of  May  2nd 
at  a  quarter-past  three  o'clock.  The  evening  papers 
of  that  day  and  the  morning  papers  of  the  next  had  long 
columns  concerning  her,  and  these  were  picturesque  and 
almost  romantic.  She  appealed  as  a  figure  veiled  but  signifi- 
cant, hidden  but  the  landmark  of  a  period  — "  Nothing  was 
more  remarkable  than  the  influence  that  she  exercised  over 
English  Society  during  the  thirty  years  that  she  was  com- 
pletely hidden  from  it " —  or  again,  "  Although  disease  com- 
pelled her,  for  thirty  years,  to  retire  from  the  world,  her  in- 
fluence during  that  period  increased  rather  than  diminished.'* 

It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  London  Society  wa& 
not  moved  to  its  foundations  by  the  news  of  her  death.  PeO' 
pie  said,  "  Oh !  that  old  woman ;  gone  at  last,  I  see.  She's 
been  dying  for  years,  hasn't  she?  Quite  a  power  in  her 
day  .  .  ."  Or,  "  Oh,  the  Duchess  of  Wrexe  is  dead,  I  see. 
I  must  write  to  Addie  Beaminster.  Don't  expect  the  family 
will  miss  her  much  —  awful  old  tyrant,  I  believe  .  .  ."  o> 
"  I  say,  see  Johnnie  Beaminster's  old  lady's  gone  ?  She  kept 
the  whip-hand  of  him  in  his  time.  .  .  .  Damned  glad  he'll 
be,  I  bet." 

Two  years  earlier  and  it  would  not  have  been  thus,  but 
now  there  was  the  War  (daily  the  relief  of  Maf eking  was 
frantically  anticipated)  and  fine  regal  majesty,  sitting  digni- 
fied in  a  solemn  room,  irritated  the  world  by  its  quiescence. 

"  What  we're  needing  now  is  for  everyone  to  get  a  move 

on.     IN'o   use   sitting   around."     A   few   carefully   selected 

477 


478  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

American  phrases  can  very  swiftly  kill  a  great  deal  of  dig« 
nity  and  tradition. 

In  the  Beaminster  camp  itself  there  was  an  unexpressed 
disappointment.  They  had  grown  accustomed  to  thinking  of 
her  as  a  fine  figure,  sitting  there  where,  rather  fortunately, 
they  were  not  compelled  to  visit  her,  but  where,  nevertheless, 
she  had  a  grand  effect.  They  had  known,  for  a  long  time 
now,  that  she  was  not  so  well,  but  they  had  expected,  in  a 
vague  way,  that  she  would  go  on  living  for  ever.  They  had 
been  making,  during  the  last  two  years,  a  succession  of  en- 
forced compromises  and  now  the  crisis  of  her  death  showed 
them  how  far  they  had  gone  without  knowing  it. 

"  Things  will  never  be  the  same  as  they  were  .  .  ."  And 
in  their  hearts  they  said,  "  We're  getting  old  —  we  aren't 
wanted  as  we  once  were." 

Meanwhile  there  was  a  fine  funeral  down  at  Beaminster. 
The  Queen  was  represented,  the  Prime  Minister,  the  Leader 
of  the  Opposition,  all  the  heads  of  all  the  old  families  in  Eng- 
land, artists  and  one  or  two  very  distinguished  actor-managers 
(who  looked  far  more  sumptuous  than  anyone  else  present) 
,  .  .  Everyone  was  there. 

Christopher  detected  Mrs.  Bronson  and  wondered  what  the 
Duchess  would  think  of  it  if  she  knew :  Brun,  also,  although 
Christopher  did  not  see  him,  flashed  upon  them  from  the 
Continent,  was  present,  neat  and  solemn  and  immensely  ob- 
servant. It  was  all  admirable  and  worthy  of  the  best  Eng- 
lish traditions. 

"  She  was  a  fine  figure,"  said  the  Prime  Minister,  who  had 
known  her  and  disliked  her  intensely.  "  We  shall  never  see 
her  like  again,"  but  his  sigh  was  nearer  relief  than  regret. 

n 

Christopher,  three  days  after  the  funeral,  went  to  have  tea 
with  Roddy  and  Rachel.  He  was  a  man  of  great  physical 
strength  and  had  never  had  "  nerves  "  in  his  life,  but  he  was 
feeling,  just  now,  tired  out.     He  had  not  realized,  in  the 


EACHEL,  EODDY,  LORD  JOHN     4T9 

least,  during  all  these  years,  the  part  that  that  old  woman 
played  in  his  life,  and  he  found  that  his  whole  scheme  of 
things  was  now  disorganized  and  without  vitality.  It  was 
vitality  that  she  had  given  him,  a  tiresome,  troublesome, 
irritating  vitality  perhaps,  but,  nevertheless  a  fire,  an  energy, 
a  driving  curiosity. 

He  would  capture  it  again,  his  eagerness  to  investigate,  to 
assist,  to  prophesy,  but  it  would  never  any  more  be  quite  the 
same  energy  —  everyone  with  whom  she  had  had  anything 
to  do  would  find  life  now  a  little  different.  .  .  . 

Some  weeks  before  her  death  Roddy  had  sent  for  him. 
*'  I'm  awfully  upset,  Christopher,"  he  said  and  then  he  had 
told  him  about  the  scene  in  his  rooms  and  had  begged  to  know 
the  truth.  "  I  hear  she's  much  worse  —  she's  had  a  stroke 
—  I  wrote  to  her  and  she  hasn't  answered  me.  Christopher, 
tell  me  truthfully,  was  it  her  comin'  to  me  that  day  and  all 
the  kick-up  and  everythin'  that  made  her  so  much  worse  ?  " 

Christopher  had  reassured  him  — "  Quite  honestly,  if  she'd 
asked  my  leave  to  let  her  go  out  that  afternoon  I'd  not  have 
granted  it.  But  as  it  turned  out  she  wasn't  a  bit  the  worse. 
I  saw  her  directly  afterwards  —  she  told  me  all  about  it. 
She  was  rather  grimly  pleased.  Mind  you,  it  marked,  I 
think,  a  kind  of  crisis.  As  she  put  it  to  me  she  saw  that 
afternoon  that  the  whole  scheme  of  things  had  gone  out  of 
her  hands  and  that  the  new  generation  didn't  want  her  —  But 
I  think  she  was  glad  to  have  it  settled  for  her,  she  was  tired  of 
it  all,  her  struggle  to  keep  it  had  been  much  earlier. 

"  She  just  wasn't  going  to  bother  any  more  and  she  might 
have  gone  on  in  that  sort  of  way  for  years." 

But  although  he  had  thus  reassured  Roddy  he  was  not,  in 
his  heart,  so  certain.  He  seemed  to  see  a  long  chain  of  events 
(he  dated  his  own  observation  of  them  from  the  time  of 
Rachel's  coming  out),  that  had  led  both  Rachel  and  the 
Duchess  to  the  climax  of  their  actual  challenge  one  to  another. 
It  was  not  that  that  meeting  in  Roddy's  house  had  been  of 
itself  so  important,  it  was  rather  that  the  fates  had  selected 


480  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WEEXE 

it  as  a  definite  culmination  of  the  struggle.  That  meeting 
stood  for  a  sharp  visualization  of  much  more  than  the  per^ 
sonal  conflict. 

She  had  been  glad  to  go,  he  did  not  in  any  way  see  her 
death  as  a  tragedy,  but  her  departure  had  marked  the  open- 
ing of  a  new  period,  a  new  personal  history  for  the  remaining 
characters,  ultimately  perhaps  a  new  social  epoch  for  every- 
body— 

Meanwhile  he  was  happy  about  Roddy  and  Rachel  for  the 
first  time  since  their  marriage  and,  as  he  was  a  man  who 
lived  in  the  lives  of  his  friends,  their  happiness  meant  his 
own. 

He  found  Lord  John  with  Roddy,  Rachel  was  with  Aunt 
Adela,  but  "  would  be  back  for  tea."  Lord  John,  rather 
solemn  and  awkward  in  black  clothes,  was  demanding  com- 
fort and  assistance  from  his  friends.  His  trouble  was  that 
he  did  not  miss  his  mother  as  fundamentally  as  he  desired, 
and  that,  at  the  same  time,  life  was  now  most  terribly  differ- 
ent. His  brothers,  Vincent  and  Richard,  had  instantly  after 
the  funeral  adapted  themselves,  with  gravity  and  assurance, 
to  the  new  conditions. 

Lord  John  had  never  adapted  himself  to  anything,  but  had 
fitted  his  stout  body  into  the  soft  places  that  life  had  offered 
to  him  and  had  been  placidly  grateful  for  their  softness. 
Only  once  had  he  shown  energy  of  his  own  initiative  and 
that  had  been  in  the  matter  of  his  nephew  Francis,  and  of 
that  now  he  did  not  dare  to  think. 

He  could  never,  so  long  as  he  lived,  forget  the  slightest 
detail  of  that  horrible  quarter  of  an  hour  with  his  mother 
when  she  discovered  his  iniquity  —  and  yet,  even  now,  he 
felt,  obscurely  but  obstinately,  that  he  had  done  right. 
!N^evertheless  he  would  never  again  take  life  into  his  own 
hands:  upon  that  he  was  absolutely  resolved.  What  he 
needed  now  was  reassurance  from  his  friends.  He  had  al- 
ways before  found  that  life  arranged  itself  about  him  in  a 


RACHEL,  RODDY,  LORD  JOHN     481 

comfortable  way  and  he  confidently  expected  that  it  would 
do  so  now,  but  meanwhile  he  must  have  kind  looks  and  words 
from  somebody.  He  was  a  man  who  hailed  with  joy  the  op- 
portunity of  bestowing  affection  upon  a  friend  who  was  not 
likely,  at  a  later  time,  to  rebuff  him.  He  had  never  been 
quite  sure  of  Rachel  —  she  was  so  strange  and  uncertain  — 
but  upon  Roddy,  helpless,  good-natured,  and  a  man  of  his 
own  world,  he  felt  that  he  could  rely.  He  spent  therefore 
many  hours  at  Roddy's  side,  rather  silent,  smiling  a  great 
deal,  playing  chess  with  him,  sticking  little  flags  on  the  War 
Map. 

At  times,  as  he  sat  there,  he  would  think  of  his  mother, 
of  the  Portland  Place  house  shortly  to  be  sold,  of  a  world 
altered  and  alarming,  and  then  he  would  wonder  how  long 
the  time  would  be  before  he  might  again  take  up  his  old 
habits,  his  old  houses,  his  old  comforts,  and  then  his  fat  cheer- 
ful face  would  gather  wrinkles  upon  its  surface.  "  It's  after 
a  thing  like  this  that  a  feller  gets  old  —  Richard  and  Adela 
and  I  —  We'll  have  to  make  up  our  minds  to  it." 

Christopher  found  them  busied  with  the  map,  discussing 
the  probable  hour  of  Mafeking's  relief.  Lord  John  looked  at 
Christopher  a  little  anxiously,  perhaps  Tie  was  going  to  bo 
down  upon  him!  But  Christopher  was  a  very  quiet  and 
genial  Christopher.  He  sank  down  into  a  chair  with  a  sigh 
of  comfort,  waved  his  hand  to  them. 

"  Don't  you  mind  me.  I'm  tired  to  death.  "Was  up  all 
last  night  with  a  case " 

"  You  see,"  said  Roddy,  "  there's  Ramathlabama.  Well 
—  Plumer  lost  a  lot  o'  men  there  and  they  say  his  crowd  have 
had  fever  too  and  there  ain't  much  to  hope  for  there  —  now 
Roberts " 

But  Lord  John's  attention  was  distracted.  He  wished  to 
be  quite  sure  that  Christopher  did  not  regard  him  with 
severity. 

"  You  look  fagged  out,  Christopher." 


482  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

"  I  am  I  "  said  Christopher,  smiling. 

*'  I'm  feeling  a  bit  done  up,  too.  Think  I'll  take  Adela 
abroad  somewhere  for  a  little." 

"  I  should,"  said  Christopher.  "  Excellent  thing  for  both 
of  you." 

'•  Now  where  do  you  suggest  ?  " 

"  Oh,  anywhere  different  from  London.  Go  on  a 
cruise " 

''  Adela's  a  bad  sailor  —  wretched.  I'm  not  very  good 
myself." 

They  discussed  places.  Christopher  was  more  than 
friendly.  There  had  been  occasions  when  he  had  been  the 
stem  family  physician  and  had  treated  Lord  John  with  some 
severity.  I^ow  there  was  implied  a  new  comradeship  as 
though  they  had  passed  through  perils  together  and  would 
have  always  between  them  in  the  future  a  strong  bond  of 
friendship. 

John  felt  that  the  atmosphere  at  this  moment  was  so 
friendly  and  comforting  that  he  would  not  risk  the  disturb- 
ance of  it. 

He  got  up. 

"  Think  I'll  be  going  on,  Eoddy.  Don't  like  leaving  Adela 
alone.  Eachel  will  be  on  her  way  here  now,  so  I'll  be  getting 
back." 

He  was  staying  with  Adela  at  a  quiet  little  hotel  in  Dover 
Street. 

"  Well,  good-bye  for  the  moment,  Christopher.  Adela'd 
be  very  glad  if  you'd  come  in  and  see  her.  Come  and  have 
lunch  with  us  to-morrow." 

"  Thanks,  I  will." 

He  stood,  for  a  moment,  looking  out  upon  the  park,  warm 
and  comfortable  under  the  sun.  He  thought  of  Rachel.  He 
had  regained  the  old  Rachel  the  other  night  at  Beaminster  — 
dear  Rachel! 

Rachel,  Roddy,  Christopher  —  how  nice  they  all  were! 
There  was,  he  felt,  a  new  feeling  of  security  amongst  them 


KACHEL,  RODDY,  LORD  JOHN  483 

all.  Yes,  he  really  did  believe  that  life,  now,  was  going  to  be 
very  comfortable  and  safe  and  easy.  .  .  . 

"  So  long,  Roddy." 

He  beamed  happily  upon  them  and  went. 

Jacob,  the  dog,  came  in  from  his  afternoon  walk,  very 
grave,  paying  no  attention  to  Christopher,  but  going  at  once 
and  lying,  full  length,  near  Roddy's  sofa,  his  head  between 
his  paws,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  master. 

"  What's  happened  to  all  your  other  dogs  ? "  asked  Chris- 
topher.    "  They  must  be  missing  you  very  badly." 

"  Oh,  they're  down  at  Seddon,  got  a  jolly  good  man  there 
whom  I  can  trust  —  don't  think  they  miss  me.  This  beggar 
would  though.  Funny  thing,  Christopher  —  when  I  was 
goin'  about  and  all  the  rest  of  it  I  thought  nothin'  of  this  dog, 
couldn't  see  why  Rachel  made  such  a  fuss  of  it  —  now  — 
why  I  don't  know  how  I'd  ever  get  on  without  it,  so  under- 
standin'  and  quiet  with  it  all  too.  Nothin'  like  a  trouble  of 
some  sort  for  showin'  who's  worth  what,  whether  they're 
dogs  or  people.  .  .  ." 

"  I  hope  the  funeral  did  Rachel  no  harm,"  Christopher 
said. 

"  !Not  a  bit  of  it.  She'd  had  a  last  interview  with  the  old 
lady  and  knew,  after  that,  she'd  never  see  her  again.  In  a 
way  she  hasn't  felt  it,  but  in  a  way  too  I  believe  she'd  like  to 
have  all  the  old  time  over  again  and  see  whether  she  couldn't 
manage  it  better  .  ,  .  she  said  to  me  she'd  never  understood 
the  old  woman  until  that  last  talk  with  her,  not  that  there 
was  much  love  lost  between  'em  even  then.  Was  Breton 
there  ? " 

"  No  —  He  scarcely  could  go,  in  the  circumstances." 

"  Funny  feller,  Breton.  What  puzzles  me  is  what  did  he 
go  and  give  up  Rachel  so  easily  for  ?  I  couldn't  tell  you  why, 
but  that  day  he  came  here  I  was  as  sure  as  I  was  lyin'  here 
that  whatever  there  was  between  them  was  finished.  I 
wouldn't  have  said  what  I  did,  seemed  to  take  it  so  quietly, 
if  I  hadn't  seen  in  a  minute  it  was  all  over." 


484  THE  DUCHESS  OP  WEEXE 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know  Francis,"  said  Christopher.  "  It's 
all  romantic  impulses  that  set  him  going  —  Rachel  romantic 
impulse  on  one  side,  getting  hack  to  the  family  romantic  im- 
pulse on  the  other.  He  knew  if  he  went  off  with  her  that 
getting  back  to  the  family  would  be  over  for  ever  as  far  as 
he  was  concerned.  He  knew  that  he'd  never  cease  to  regret 
it.  .  .  .  John  Beaminster  coming  to  him  gave  him  what  he'd 
been  waiting  for,  longing  for.     He  seized  it " 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  more  than  that,"  said  Eoddy  slowly. 
"  It  all  lies  with  Rachel.  He  never  got  close  to  her  any  more 
than  I've  done.  I  know  now  that  she's  fond  of  me,  but  it's 
by  the  child  I'll  hold  her  and  by  my  helplessness,  nothin' 
else.  And  she'll  have  her  wild  moments  when  myself  and 
everythin'  about  me  will  seem  simply  impossible,  just  as  if 
she'd  gone  off  with  Breton  she'd  have  had  her  comfortable 
domestic  sort  of  longin's  and  hated  him  and  everythin'  about 
him.  I  believe  Breton  knew  —  just  as  I  knew  —  that  nevei* 
tryin'  to  hold  her  was  the  way  to  keep  her,  and  he'd  have  had 
to  have  her  if  he'd  gone  off  with  her.  .  .  . 

"  Anyway,  Rachel  wouldn't  be  so  adorable  if  there  wasn't 
a  lot  of  her  that  no  one  man  could  master.  But  I've  been 
given  all  the  tricks  in  the  game  by  bein'  laid  up  like  this  — 
just  when  I  thought  I'd  lost  all  worth  bavin'  in  life  and  never 
a  chance  of  a  kid  again!  .  .  .  Funny  thing,  Life! 

"  But  she's  mine !  Christopher,  and  no  one  can  take  her. 
Breton's  got  his  idea  of  her;  there  is  a  bit  of  her  that  he 
stirred  that  I  never  could  touch,  but  it  don't  matter  —  she's 
the  most  wonderful  creature  on  this  earth  and  I'm  the  luckiest 
beggar." 

"  She'll  be  quieter,"  said  Christopher,  "  now  that  the 
Duchess  is  gone.  They  were  always  conscious  of  one 
another.  .  .  ." 

"  And  now  there'll  be  the  kid  instead.  If  he's  a  boy  I 
swear  he  shall  be  the  best  rider,  the  best  sportsman  in  this 
bloomin'  old  world  —  not  that  I'd  mind  a  girl,  either.  I'd 
like  to  have  a  girl  —  just  the  time  for  a  woman  nowadays. 


RACHEL,  EODDY,  LOED  JOHN     485. 

Whichever  way  it  is  I'll  be  contented.  'Not,  you  know,"  he 
added  hastily,  "  that  I'm  going  to  be  a  sort  o'  blessed  angel 
with  domestic  bliss  and  never  wantin'  to  get  off  this  old  sofa 
and  the  rest  —  not  a  hit  of  it  —  it's  damned  tryin'  and  I 
curse  hours  together  often  enough.  Peters  has  the  benefit  of 
it.     I  wasn't  born  an  angel  and  I  shan't  die  one.  .  .  ." 

"  Nobody  wants  you  to,"  said  Christopher. 

"  Well,  you  needn't  worry.  But  it's  funny  how  I  get 
talkin'  nowadays  —  never  used  to  say  a  word  —  now  I  gas 
away  .  .  .  Well,  cheers  for  the  new  generation,  cheers  for 
young  Roddy  Secundus.  .  .  .  Long  life  to  him !  " 

"  There's  one  thing,"  said  Christopher,  looking  at  him. 
"  Whatever  inspired  you,  that  day  you  had  the  scene  here, 
to  behave  to  Frank  Breton  as  you  did  ?  To  give  them  both 
carte  blanche  —  it  wouldn't  be  the  way  of  most  husbands 
confronted  with  such  a  question  —  it  was  the  only  way  for 
Rachel  .  .  .  but  how  did  you  know  her  well  enough  ?  You'll 
forgive  my  saying  so,  your  method  as  a  rule  is  to  drive 
straight  in,  let  fly  all  round,  and  then  count  the  bits." 

"  If  you  love  anybody,"  said  Roddy,  with  confusion  and 
hesitation,  "  as  much  as  I  love  Rachel  you  become  wonder- 
fully understandin'.  .  .  .  Look  here,"  he  broke  off,  "  don't 
let's  talk  any  more  rot.  Just  drop  all  jaw  about  feelin's  and 
such.     There's  been  an  awful  lot  of  it  lately." 

He  would  say  no  more;  they  got  the  war  map  and,  very 
happily  for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour,  moved  flags  up  and 
down  its  surface. 

Then  came  Rachel  and,  after  her,  tea.  They  were  a  quiet 
but  very  happy  company  during  the  next  half-hour. 

"  How's  Aunt  Adela  ?  "  asked  Roddy. 

"  Very  well,  considering,"  said  Rachel.  "  Of  course  she's 
confused  and  lost  her  bearings  rather.  She  misses  the  Port- 
land Place  house  more  than  anything,  I  think  —  she  was  there 
so  long.  But  Uncle  Vincent  was  right ;  it  would  have  been 
very  bad  for  her  if  she'd  stayed  in  it.  .  .  .  She's  quiet  and 
depending  a  lot  upon  Lizzie " 


^6  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

When  tea  was  ended  Rachel  said,  "  Dr.  Chris,  I've  got 
something  to  saj  to  you.  I'm  going  to  tear  you  away  from 
Roddy  for  five  minutes  if  you'll  come  upstairs." 

"  Well,  that's  a  nice  sort  of  thing "  protested  Roddy. 

"  I  won't  keep  him."  She  took  him  up  to  the  little  draw- 
ing-room and  as  they  sat  there  by  the  window  together  he 
thought  of  that  day  when  he  had  told  her  the  Duchess  was 
downstairs  with  Roddy.  They  had  all  travelled  a  long  way 
since  then. 

"  There's  a  favour  I  want  you  to  grant  me." 

"  Anything  in  the  world." 

"  It^s  about  Francis  — "  She  gave  him  the  name  with 
a  little  hesitation  and  with  an  air  of  restraint  as  though  about 
the  very  whisper  penalties  could  linger. 

"  You're  the  best  friend  that  he's  got  —  the  best  friend 
any  man  could  have  —  and  I  want  you  to  care  for  him,  to 
look  after  him,  to  watch  over  him.  I  know,"  she  went  on 
hurriedly,  "  that  you  always  have  done  that,  but  I  want  you 
to  feel  now  that  you're  doing  it  a  little  for  my  sake  as  well  as 
your  own.  I  want  you  to  be  the  one  link  that  I've  still  got 
■with  him." 

"  But  Roddy  asked  him "  began  Christopher. 

"  Oh  yes !  I  know  —  Roddy  was  splendid.  But  of  course 
that  can't  be.  We  can't  meet,  at  any  rate  for  years.  Be- 
sides, that  time  is  so  utterly  done  with.  There's  only  Roddy 
now  for  me  in  all  the  world.  But  I  know,  better,  I  expect, 
than  you  think,  how  weak  Francis  is,  how  much  he  depends 
upon  what  the  people  whom  he  cares  for  say  to  him  —  and 
80  I  want  you " 

"  But  of  course,"  Christopher  said.  "  He  knows  that  he 
can  count  on  me  whatever  happens  —  he's  always  known 
that." 

He  stopped  and  waited  for  her  to  continue;  he  saw  that 
she  had  more  to  say. 

"  It's  so  strange,"  she  said,  staring,  her  eyes  deep  and 
black  seeing  into  sacred  places  that  were  known  only  to  her. 


RACHEL,  RODDY,  LORD  JOHN     487 

"  how  grandmother's  death  haa  cleared,  amazingly,  the  air. 
The  motive  for  almost  everything  has  gone.  I  didn't  see  — ■ 
I  hadn't  the  least  idea  —  how  all  my  thoughts  and  actions 
and  wishes  and  impulses  came  from  my  sense  of  opposition 
to  her.  Francis  saw  that  —  knowing  that  we  both  hated  her 
—  and  that  was  why  I  was  so  difficult  with  Roddy,  because  I 
thought  that  grandmother  had  arranged  the  marriage  and  had 
him  under  her  thumb  —  I  had  no  idea  of  the  kind  of  person. 
Roddy  was." 

"  N^or  had  I  —  nor  had  anyone,"  said  Christopher, 

"  That  whole  affair  with  Francis  was  in  idea  —  always  — 
more  than  in  fact.  I  knew,  and  I  believe  that  he  knew, 
that  it  was  simply  a  piece  of  wild  rebellion  on  my  part ;  and 
on  his  —  well,  he's  like  that,  romantic,  rebellious,  responding 
in  a  minute  to  everything,  but  wanting,  really,  all  the  time  to 
be  safe  and  proper.  That  day  we  met  in  his  rooms,  we  both 
knew,  at  heart,  that  something  was  missing  —  something  one 
had  to  have  if  one  was  going  to  break  away  altogether.  He 
was  always  a  rebel  by  force  of  circumstances,  never  by  real 
inclination." 

She  put  her  hand  on  Christopher's  knee  and  drew  very 
close  to  him.  "  Chris  dear,  I'm  terrified  now  when  I  think 
of  how  near  I  was  to  absolute,  complete  disaster.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  Roddy's  accident  and  for  Lizzie  .  .  .  Lizzie's  been 
to  all  of  us  everything  in  the  world. 

"  Do  you  remember  once  telling  me  about  Mr.  Brun's 
Tiger  ?  I've  often  thought  of  it  since  and  it  seems  to  me  now 
that  to  all  of  us  —  for  Roddy  and  Francis  and  Lizzie  and 
me  —  the  moment  of  our  consciousness  came.  Ever  since 
that  day  when  they  carried  Roddy  back  to  Seddon  each  one 
of  us  has  had  to  wait,  just  holding  ourselves  in.  .  .  .  But, 
you  know.  Dr.  Chris,  that's  the  secret  of  the  whole  matter. 
It  wasn't  I,  or  Breton,  or  even  Lizzie  or  Roddy  that  defeated 
grandmother  —  it  was  simply  Real  Life.  First  the  War, 
then  Roddy's  accident  —  Roddy's  accident  most  of  all.  Wo 
had,  all  five  of  us,  been  leading  sham  lives,  then  suddenly 


488  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

God,  Eate,  Providence,  what  you  will,  steps  in,  jerks  us  all 
back,  takes  away  from  all  of  us  what  we  thought  we  wanted 
most,  puts  us  in  line  with  the  real  thing  —  our  Tiger,  if  you 
like.  Grandmother  simply  couldn't  stand  it.  Lizzie  and 
Eoddy  are  real  —  half  of  Breton  and  me,  and  most  of  grand- 
mother unreal  —  Well,  Lizzie  and  Eoddy  have  just  put  things 
straight  quietly.  .  .  .  Grandmother's  generation  saw  things 
'  through  a  glass  darkly ' —  They're  gone.  It's  all  going  to 
be  '  face  to  face '  now." 

Christopher  looked  at  her,  smiling.  She  was  so  young, 
so  adorably  young  with  her  seriousness. 

She  broke  in  — "  What  rot  I'm  talking !  It  only  comes  to 
this,  that  I  wish  now,  like  anything,  that  I'd  been  nicer  to 
grandmamma.  One  sees  things  always  too  late.  .  .  .  I'd 
like  to  have  another  try,  to  begin  with  grandmamma  again, 
to  be  more  tolerant,  to  hate  her  less.  But  I  expect  in  the 
end  it  would  be  the  same.  She'd  have  had  me  tied  up,  with- 
out a  will  of  my  own,  without  a  word  to  say !  .  .  .  that  was 
her  idea  of  controlling  us  all.  It's  over,  it's  done  with  —  no 
one,  I  expect,  will  have  her  kind  of  power  again.  .  .  .  But 
she  was  fine !     I  only  see  now  how  fine  she  was ! 

"  ISTo  one,  I  expect,  will  have  her  kind  of  power  again.  .  .  ." 

Now  she  stood  away  from  Christopher,  looking  at  him  and 
also  beyond  him,  as  though  she  were  finally,  once  and  for  all, 
surveying,  cataloguing  that  same  power  — 

"  She  wasn't  terrible,  she  wasn't  fine,  she  wasn't  really 
anything  except  a  kind  of  peg  for  all  sorts  of  traditions  to 
hang  on  to.  In  herself  she  was  just  a  plucky,  theatrical, 
obstinate  old  woman.  It  was  simply  the  idea  of  her  that 
frightened  us  all.  I  remember  the  first  time  that  I  saw  Yale 
Ross's  picture  of  her  —  He'd  caught  all  the  ceremony  and  the 
terror.  It  was  then  that  I  had  the  first  faint  suspicion  that 
she  didn't,  in  herself,  live  up  to  the  picture  in  the  least. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  went  on,  coming  up  closer  to  him,  "  that 
that's  why  no  one  will  ever  be  like  her  again  —  because  no  one 
will  ever  be  taken  in  so  completely  by  shams  again,  never  by 


RACHEL,  RODDY,  LORD  JOHN  489 

the  empty  shell  of  anything.  But  that's  just  how  she  in- 
fluenced us  —  all  of  us.  Myself,  you,  Lizzie,  Roddy,  Francis 
...  we  were  all  mixed  up  in  it  — 

"  And  then  the  first  moment  that  we  really  came  into  con- 
tact with  her  she  wasn't  anything  —  wasn't  simply  there. 
Do  you  know.  Dr.  Chris,  seeing  her  now,  just  an  old  sick 
woman,  conscious  that  everyone  was  escaping  her,  I  almost 
love  her !  ...  I  do  indeed !  " 

She  sprang  up  and  stood  hefore  him  and  laughed,  crying  — 

"  I'm  grown  up.  Dr.  Chris,  I'm  grown  up !  It's  taken  a 
time,  but  it's  happened  at  last!  Meanwhile  I  shall  be  the 
most  perfect  wife,  the  most  perfect  mother,  and  when  the 
Tiger  is  restive  there'll  be  the  youngest  Seddon  to  put  it  all 
into.  Oh!  What  a  child  that  child  will  be!  Roddy  and 
his  impatience,  me  and  my  tempers " 

She  laughed  and  for  an  instant  her  old  fierce  defiance  was 
there;  then,  as  though  some  spirit  had  flashed,  before  his 
eyes,  through  the  window  into  space  and  freedom  it  was  gone. 
She  herself  proclaimed  its  dismissal. 

"  It's  gone  —  it's  all  gone  —  Dr.  Chris.  I'm  the  happiest 
woman  in  England !  " 

But  even  as  she  spoke  her  eyes  were  wistful;  half-seen, 
half-recalled,  eloquent  with  a  colour,  a  flame  that  was  too 
fierce  for  her  present  world,  hung  before  her  the  memory  of 
a  moment  when,  in  a  darkened  room,  she  had  caught  a  letter 
to  her  lips,  had  sunk  upon  her  knees  before  a  passion  whose 
face  she  had  scarcely  seen  but  whose  voice  she  had  heard 
and  still  now,  in  her  new  life,  remembered.  She  had  had 
her  moment  ,  .  .  the  last  strains  of  its  dying  music  were  still 
in  her  ears.  She  caught  her  breath,  then,  turning,  dismissed 
it;  and,  standing  back  from  Christopher,  gave  him  her  last 
word  — 

"  But  look  after  Francis.  Be  with  him  as  much  as  you 
can.  .  .  .  He  needs  all  that  you  can  spare  —  He's  got  to  be 
■ —  he's  simply  got  to  be  —  the  success  of  the  family !  " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EPILOGUE  —  PROLOGUE 

"  Third  Apparition  —  A   Child   Crowned  , 

Macbeth. 


LATE  on  the  evening  of  May  17th  Christopher  heard  of 
the  relief  of  Mafeking.  It  was  too  advanced  an  hour, 
he  understood,  for  the  town  to  display  its  triumph  that  even- 
ing.    Let  Christopher  wait. 

The  following  night  Brun,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  many 
months,  appeared.  The  clocks  had  struck  nine  and  Chris- 
topher was  finishing  his  dinner,  when  the  little  man,  shining 
and  dapper,  pleased  and  impersonal,  was  shown  in. 

"  Hullo !  "  cried  Christopher ;  "  thought  you  were  abroad 
somewhere." 

"  I  saw  you  at  the  Duchess's  funeral.  Of  course  I  was 
there.  What  do  you  suppose?  Meanwhile  come  out  now 
and  see  your  fine  people  make  manifestations." 

"  Is  there  a  noise  ?  " 

"A  noise!     Mon  Dieu!    But  come  and  look!  " 

They  went  out  together.  Harley  Street  was  silent  and 
deserted  and  above  it  a  night  sky,  scattered  with  stars,  was 
serenely  still.  But,  beyond  the  further  roofs  and  chimneys, 
golden  light  hovered  and  a  confused  murmur,  like  the  buzzing 
of  bees,  hummed  upon  space. 

Through  Oxford  Street  a  great  crowd  of  people  was  pass- 
ing, but  it  was  a  crowd  hurrying  to  find  some  other  crowd. 
Oxford  Street  was  plainly  not  the  meeting-place.  There  was 
a  good  deal  of  shouting  and  singing ;  young  men,  five  abreast, 
passed,  girls  with  "  ticklers "  and  whittles  screamed  and 
laughed  and  sang;  merry  bells  were  ringing,  lights  flared  in 

the  windows  and  now  and  again  a  rocket  with  a  whiz  and  a 

490 


EPILOGUE  —  PEOLOGUE  491' 

shriek  flashed  into  the  sky  and  broke  with  a  little  angry 
splutter  into  coloured  stars. 

They  crossed  into  Bond  Street,  down  which  other  people 
were  hurrying;  sometimes  a  roaring  echo  of  a  multitude  of 
discordant  voices  would  be  carried  to  them  and  then  would 
be  hidden  again  as  though  some  huge  door  in  front  of  them 
were  swinging  to  and  fro. 

At  the  end  of  Bond  Street,  suddenly,  as  they  might  turn 
the  corner  of  some  sea  road  and,  instantly,  be  confronted 
with  the  crash  of  a  plunging  surf,  they  met  the  crowd. 

"  Look  out !  "  cried  Brun,  clutching  hold  of  Christopher's 
arm.     "  We  don't  want  to  get  drawn  into  this !  " 

Although  they  had  apparently  been  walking  quietly  down 
Bond  Street  with  no  crowd  about  them,  they  now  were  pur- 
sued, upon  all  sides,  by  people.  They  raised  themselves  on 
to  a  doorstep,  hanging  there,  bending  their  feet  forward,  and 
feeling  that  if  the  crowd  in  front  of  them  were  for  a  moment 
to  give  way  down  they  would  go ! 

Meanwhile,  along  Piccadilly,  towards  the  clubs  and  Hyde 
Park  Comer,  a  thick  mass  of  human  beings  was  pressing. 
This  gathering  seemed,  of  itself,  to  lack  all  human  quality. 

A  face,  a  voice,  a  hand,  a  cry these  things  might  now 

and  again,  as  fish  flash  in  a  stream,  detach  themselves;  some- 
times a  light  from  a  flaring  window  or  an  illumination  would 
fling  into  pale,  unreal  relief  a  bundle  of  faces  that  repre- 
sented, at  that  instant,  a  piece  of  human  history,  but  sank 
instantly  back  again  into  chaos. 

One  might  fancy  that  this  was  no  crowd  of  human  beings, 
but  some  new,  imknown  creature,  dragging  its  coils  from  the 
sluggish  bed  of  some  hidden  river,  stamping  to  destructioxi 
as  it  went. 

Then  as  though  one  were  watching  a  show,  with  a  click, 
the  human  element  was  back  again.  There  two  girls,  thei? 
hats  pushed  aside,  their  hair  half  uncoiled,  their  cheeks 
flushed,  their  eyes  partly  bold  and  partly  frightened,  were 
wreaming : 


492  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

"  Oo're  yer  'itting  ?  Don't  again  then.  Good  old  Eng- 
land I     Gawd  save " 

It  was  not  on  the  whole  a  crowd  stirred  only  by  national 
joy  and  pride.  It  may,  in  its  units,  when  it  first  left  its 
many  homes,  have  announced  its  intention  of  giving  "  a  jolly 
'ooray"  for  our  splendid  country  and  our  Beloved  Queen, 
but,  once  in  a  position  from  which  there  was  no  returning, 
once  in  the  hands  of  a  force  that  was  stronger  than  any  felt 
before,  it  had  forgotten  the  country  and  its  defeats  and  suc- 
cesses. Only  two  courses  open.  Either  admit  fear,  feel  that 
the  breath  of  you  is  slowly  but  quite  surely  in  process  of 
being  crushed  out  of  you,  feel  that  your  arms  and  legs  are 
being  torn  from  you,  that  your  ribs  are  being  smashed  into 
powder  and  that  your  heart  is  being  pressed  as  flat  as  a  pan- 
cake, let  then  panic  overwhelm  you,  fight  and  scream  to  get 
out  and  away  from  it,  see  yourself  finally  falling,  trampled, 
kicked,  your  face  squashed  to  pulp,  your  eyes  torn  out,  your 
breath  strangled  in  your  body  ...  so  much  for  Fear.  Or, 
on  the  other  hand  arouse  Frenzy ! 

Be  above  and  beyond  your  body,  scream  and  shout,  rattle 
rattles  and  blow  whistles,  trample  upon  everything  that  is 
near  you,  smack  faces  with  your  hand,  pull  off  clothing  and 
scatter  hats  and  bonnets,  scream  aloud,  no  matter  what  it  is 
that  you  are  screaming,  let  your  voice  exclaim  that  at  length, 
at  length,  you,  a  miserable  clerk  on  nothing  a  week,  in  the 
City,  are,  for  the  first  time  in  your  existence,  the  Captain  of 
your  soul,  the  ruthless  master  of  a  wretched,  law-making 
tyrannous  world.  ...  So  much  for  Frenzy! 

Either  way,  be  it  Frenzy  or  Fear,  the  Country  has  not 
much  to  say  to  it  all.  With  every  moment  it  seems  that 
from  the  Circus  more  bodies,  more  arms  and  legs  are  being 
pressed  and  crushed  and  packed;  with  every  moment  the 
clanging  of  the  bells  is  louder,  the  fire  in  the  sky  higher  and 
wilder,  the  singing,  the  screaming,  the  oaths  and  the  curses 
are  nearer,  the  defiance  that  loss  of  individuality  gives. 

"  Let's  get  back,"  said  Brun.     He  turned,  but,  at  that 


EPILOGUE  —  PROLOGUE  493 

moment,  someone  from  behind  him  cried,  "  Oo  are  yer  shov- 
ing there  ?  "  He  was  pushed,  with  Christopher,  half  falling, 
half  clutching  at  arms  and  shoulders,  forward  into  the  street. 

They  righted  themselves,  Brun  fastened  upon  Christopher's 
arm,  shouting  into  his  ear,  "  We'd  better  go  along  with  the 
crowd  for  a  bit.  We'll  get  a  chance  of  cutting  up  Half  Moon 
Street.     Can't  do  anything  else." 

They  were  pressed  forward.  !N'ow,  received  into  the  bosom 
of  the  crowd,  they  were  conscious  both  of  the  human  element 
and  of  the  stronger  composite  spirit  that  was  mightier  than 
anything  human,  a  creation  of  the  City  against  whose  walls 
they  were  now  so  riotously  shouting. 

!Next  to  Christopher  was  a  young  man  in  evening  dress; 
his  hat  had  disappeared,  his  collar  was  torn,  sweat  was  pour- 
ing down  his  forehead  and  at  the  top  of  his  voice  he  screamed 
again  and  again: 

"  Good  old  England !  Good  old  England !  Good  old 
Bobs !  Good  old  Bobs !  "  Squeezed  up  against  Christo- 
pher's arm  was  a  stout  body  that  looked  as  though  it  had 
once  belonged  to  some  elderly  gentleman  who  liked  white 
waistcoats  and  brass  buttons.  Prom  somewhere,  in  obvious 
connection  with  these  buttons,  came  a  weak,  breathless  voice : 
"  You'll  excuse  me  hanging  on  so,  sir.  It's  familiar  —  not 
my  way  —  but  this  crowd  .  .  ." 

A  girl,  with  crimson  face,  leant  against  Christopher,  put 
her  arm  round  his  neck,  tickled  his  face  with  a  feather;  she 
screamed  with  laughter :  "  Oo-ray !  Oo-ray  —  Oo-bloody- 
ray!" 

"  Look  out,  you  swine !  "  somebody  shouted. 

"And  'e  shouted  out,  did  Bobs 
Come  along,  you  stinking  nobs, 
We  will  show  you — " 

Around  them,  above  them,  below  them  there  tossed  a  whirl- 
pool of  noise,  something  outside  and  beyond  the  immediate 
sounds  that  they  were  making.     Bells,  -^oices,  shouts  that 


494  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

seemed  to  have  no  hmnan  origin,  the  very  walls  and  stones 
of  the  City  crying  aloud. 

Then,  opposite  the  entrance  to  Half  Moon  Street  another 
crowd  seemed  to  meet  them.  There  was  pause.  "  Get  out 
of  it !  "  "  Go  the  other  way."  "  Damn  yer  eyes,  step  off 
it."     "  Go  back,  cam't  yer  ?  " 

It  was  then  that  for  the  briefest  moment  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  Christopher  was  afraid.  Someone  was  press- 
ing into  his  back  until  surely  it  would  break,  some  other  was 
ieaning,  and  driving  his  chest  in,  driving  it  so  that  the  breath 
flooded  his  face,  his  eyes,  his  nose.  Colours  rose  and  fell; 
someone's  evil  breath  burnt  upon  his  cheeks.  Light  flashed 
before  him  in  broad,  steady  flares. 

"  Brun,  Brun,"  he  cried. 

"  All  right,"  a  voice  from  many  miles  away  answered  him. 

He  was  seized  with  the  determination  to  survive.  They 
thou^t  that  they  could  "  down  "  him,  but  they  should  see 
that  they  were  mistaken;  his  rage  rising,  he  was  no  longer 
Dr.  Christopher  of  Harley  Street,  but  something  savage,  law- 
less beyond  even  his  own  control.  He  drove  with  his  arms; 
curses  met  him  and  someone  drove  back  into  him  and  a 
ridiculous  face  with  staring  eyes  that  stupidly  pleaded  and 
a  nose  that  was  white  and  trembling  and  a  mouth  that  drib- 
bled at  the  comers  came  up  against  his. 

"  Keep  back,  can't  you  ?  "  someone  shouted. 

"  Brun,  Brun,"  he  called  again,  and  then  was  conscious 
that  bodies  were  giving  way  before  him.  His  hand  met  a 
stomach  covered  with  cloth  and  little  hard  buttons,  and  then 
coming  against  a  woman's  arm  soft  and  warm,  Christophel" 
had  instantly  gained  possession  of  his  soul  once  more. 

"  Hope  I  didn't  hurt  you,"  he  heard  himself  saying,  then, 
some  barrier  of  legs  and  bodies  yielding,  found  that  he  was 
flung  out,  away,  stumbling,  in  spite  of  himself,  on  to  his 
knees. 

He  caught  someone  by  the  arm,  and  it  was  Brun. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  said  Christopher. 


EPILOGUE  —  PEOLOGTJE  495 

"  It's  all  right,"  answered  Brun.  "  We're  in  Half  Moon 
Street     We're  out  of  it." 

u 

Somewhere  in  the  peaceful  retirement  behind  the  clubs 
thej  surveyed  one  another  and  then  laughed.  Brun  —  the 
dapper  perfect  Brun  —  had  a  bleeding  cheek,  a  torn  waist- 
coat, and  a  large  and  very  unbecoming  tear  in  his  trousers. 
He  was  half  angry  and  half  amused  —  finally  a  survey  of 
Christopher,  with  mud  on  his  nose  and  his  collar  hanging 
from  one  button  and  revealing  a  fat  red  neck,  restored  his 
good  temper. 

"  You'd  better  come  back  with  me,"  said  Christopher, 
"  and  be  cleaned  up." 

They  went  back  to  Harley  Street  and  half  an  hour  later 
were  sitting  quietly  in  easy  chairs,  with  the  house  as  though 
it  were  made  of  cotton-wool,  so  silent  and  hidden  was  it, 
about  them. 

Both  men  were  excited;  Christopher  had  been  changed 
by  the  events  of  the  last  few  weeks,  and  Brun,  if  he  had  not 
been  so  personally  involved,  had  seen  enough  to  excite  his 
most  eager  curiosity  and  speculation. 

Brun's  sharp  little  eyes,  flashing  across  the  tip  of  his  cigar, 
sought  Christopher's  large  comfortable  face,  fell  from  there 
over  his  large  comfortable  body,  down  at  last  to  his  large 
comfortable  boots. 

"  Well  .  .  .  First  time  I've  seen  a  Continental  crowd  in 
England." 

"  Continental  ? " 

"  Always  your  Englishman,  however  excited  and  of  what- 
ever rank,  knows  there  are  things  a  gentleman  doesn't  do. 
Those  people  to-night  had  not  that  knowledge.  Very  inter- 
esting," he  added. 

Christopher  peacefully  smoked,  his  body  well  spread  out 
in  the  chair,  his  broad  rather  clumsy-looking  fingers  clutch- 
ing devotedly  at  his  pipe. 


496  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WKEXE 

"  So  you  were  at  the  funeral  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  I  was.  I  expect  I  mourned  her  more  sincerely  than  any 
of  you.  I'd  never  seen  her,  but  she  meant  a  lot  to  me  —  as  a 
symbol.     And  I  like  symbols  better  than  human  beings." 

He  pulled  his  body  together  with  a  little  jerk  and  leaned 
forward :  "  Christopher,  do  you  remember,  a  long  while 
ago,  going  into  a  gallery  in  Bond  Street  and  meeting  Lady 
Adela  Beaminster  there  and  Lady  Seddon?  It  was  just 
after  Eoss's  portrait  was  first  shown." 

"  I  remember,"  said  Christopher,  nodding  his  head. 
"  You  were  there." 

"  I  was.  I  was  there  with  Arkwright  the  African  explorer 
man.  I  only  mention  the  day  because  Arkwright  was  inter- 
ested in  Lady  Seddon,  wanted  to  know  all  about  her,  and  I 
talked  a  bit,  I  remember.  My  point  to  him  was  that  there 
was  a  situation  between  that  girl  and  her  grandmother  that 
would  be  worth  anybody's  watching.  I  followed  it  myself 
for  a  while  and  then  I  lost  it.  But  you're  a  friend  of  the 
family  —  tell  me,  Christopher,  what  happened  between  those 
two." 

"  iNTothing,"  Christopher  said,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  nonsense,"  Brun  answered.  "  They  were  all  in  it. 
Something  went  on.  Then  Seddon  had  that  accident  .  .  . 
Breton  was  in  it" 

But  Christopher  only  smiled. 

"  Well,  if  you  won't  —  n'importe  —  I  have  my  own  idea 
of  it  all.  That  girl  was  a  fine  girl,  and  the  old  woman  was 
fine  too  — 

"  But  how  they  must  have  hated  one  another !  " 

He  chuckled ;  then  sitting  back  in  his  chair,  his  little  eyes 
on  the  ceiling,  he  said  almost  to  himself  — "  Once,  years  ago, 
when  I  was  very,  very  young  and  romantic  —  almost  —  just 
for  a  year  or  two  I  loved  your  Shelley.  He  was  everything 
—  I  could  quote  him  by  the  page.  .  .  .  He's  gone  from  me 
now,  or  most  of  him  has,  but  there  was  one  line  that  seemed 
to  me  then  the  most  romantic  thing  I  had  ever  read  and  has 


EPILOGUE  —  PROLOGUE  497 

remained  with  me  always.  It  went  — '  And  we'll  have  fires 
out  of  the  Grand  Duke's  wood  ' —  It's  in  the  letter  to  Maria 
Gisbome,  I  think  —  I've  quite  forgotten  what  the  context  is 
now  —  it's  all  pretty  trivial  and  unimportant,  but  those  were 
the  days  when  I  made  pictures  —  I  saw  it  I  Lord,  Chris- 
topher, how  it  comes  back!  The  wood,  very  thick,  very 
large,  very  black,  no  sun  —  very  still,  and  the  great  house 
behind  it,  huge  and  white,  with  long  gardens  and  green  lawns 
and  peacocks,  and  the  Grand  Duke,  with  his  powdered  wig  and 
diamond-buckled  shoes,  his  gorgeous  suit,  his  jewelled  sword, 
his  snuff  and  his  wine,  his  silly  little  dried-up  yellow  face. 

"  Then  the  rabble  —  dirty,  smelling,  ill-conditioned  fel- 
lows—  breaking  through  the  silence,  tearing  up  the  Wood, 
knocking  down  the  palace,  hanging  the  Grand  Duke  from  a 
tree,  last  of  all,  setting  the  whole  thing  into  the  most  splendid 
blaze!  .  .  .  Oh!  of  course  that  wasn't  Shelley's  context  — 
his  was  all  about  boiling  a  kettle  or  something  —  but  that's 
the  way  I  saw  it  —  just  like  that"  Nothing  stirred  Brun 
like  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  and  now  he  was  getting  very 
excited  indeed  and  was  waving  his  hands. 

"  Yes,"  said  Christopher  placidly.  "  Very  dramatic. 
What  does  it  all  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  this.  It  seems  to  me  that  that's  just  what's  been 
happening  over  here.  Your  Duchess  is  dead  and  instead 
there  is  to-night's  crowd.  The  Grand  Duke  is  gone  and  all 
that  was  his  —  now  for  the  fires !  " 

Christopher,  filling  his  pipe,  paused,  and  then,  his  voice 
grave  and  serious :  "  Romantics  aside,  Brun,  for  a  minute. 
Do  you  remember  your  Tiger  idea  you  delivered  to  me  once  ? 
I've  often  thought  of  it  since.  You  said  then  that  the  reason 
why  the  Duchess  and  her  times  —  the  Grand  Duke  and  his 
wood  —  had  got  to  go  was  because  their  policy  had  been  to 
give  the  Tigers  of  the  world  no  liberty  —  to  pretend  indeed 
that  they  weren't  there,  and  that  now  the  time  had  come  when 
every  man  should  declare  his  Tiger,  should  give  it  liberty 
and,  whether  he  restrained  it  or  no,  acknow!Jedge  its  existence. 


498  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WREXE 

.  .  .  Well,  now  —  what  I  want  to  know  is  this.  What  to 
yoiir  thinking  is  going  to  come  of  it  all  ?  I'm  old-fashioned. 
I  like  the  old  settled  laws  and  customs  and  the  rest  of  it,  and 
yet  I'm  not  afraid  of  this  new  Individualism;  but  what  I 
expect  and  what  you  expect  to  come  of  it  all  are  sure  to  be 
mightily  different  things." 

"  They  are,"  said  Brun,  laughing.  "  You  see,  Christo- 
pher, as  I've  often  said  to  you  before,  you're  a  sentimentalist 
—  people  matter  to  you ;  you're  concerned  in  their  individual 
good  or  bad  luck.  Now  none  of  that  is  worth  anything  to 
me.  I  observe  from  the  outside  —  always.  What  I  want 
to  see  is  less  muddle,  more  brain,  less  waste  of  time,  more 
progress.  I  believe  the  loosing  of  the  Tiger  is  going  to  bring 
that  about.  That's  why  I  welcome  it  —  I  don't  care  one  little 
damn  about  your  individual  —  let  him  be  sacrificed  every 
time  for  the  general  wisdom.  Your  Duchess,  she  was  good 
for  her  age.  Now  she  is  against  progress.  She  vanishes. 
That  crowd  of  to-night  has  swept  her  away.  .  .  .  There'll  be 
a  chaos  here  for  a  time  —  people  like  the  Ruddards  will  mix 
things  up;  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Strode  will  destroy  as  many 
good  people  as  she  can.  But  the  time  will  come ;  out  of  that 
crowd  that  we  got  into  to-night  a  world,  ruled  by  brain,  by 
common  sense,  by  understanding,  not  by  sentiment  and  con- 
fusion, will  arise.  .  .  .  May  I  not  be  with  the  good  God !  " 

" '  Sentiment  and  confusion,'  "  said  Christopher,  smiling. 
"  That's  me,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  you  are  sentimental,"  said  Brun.  "  You're  stuffed 
with  it." 

"  Do  you  yourself  .  .  ."  asked  Christopher,  "  is  there  no 
one  —  no  one  in  the  world  —  who  matters  to  you  ?  " 

"  Nobody,"  said  Brun.  "  No  one  in  the  world.  I  think 
I  like  you  better  than  anybody;  you're  the  honestest  man  I 
know  and  yet  one  of  the  most  wrong-headed.  Yes,  I  like  you 
very  much;  but  it  would  not  be  true  to  say  that  it  would 
leave  any  great  blank  in  my  life  if  you  were  to  die.  Women ! 
YeS)  there  have  been  women !     But  —  thank  the  good  God  I 


EPILOGUE  —  PKOLOGUE  499 

for  the  moment  only.     The  Heart  —  no  —  The  Brain  — ■ 
yes " 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Christopher,  "  that's  all  clear  enougK 
It  isn't  very  wonderful  that  we  differ.  People  are  to  me 
everything.  Love  the  only  power  in  the  world  to  make 
change,  to  work  miracles ;  I  don't  mean  only  sensual  love,  or 
even  sexual  love,  but  simply  the  love  of  one  human  being  for 
another,  the  love  that  leads  to  thinking  more  of  your  neigh- 
bour than  yourself  —  self-denial. 

"  Self-denial ;  the  only  curb  for  your  Tiger,  Brun.  I've 
been  watching  it  in  a  piece  of  private  history,  all  this  last 
year  and  a  half.  There  might  have  been  the  most  horrible 
mess;  self-denial  saved  it  all  the  time.  You'll  say  that  all 
this  is  so  vague  and  loose  that  it's  worth  nothing." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Brun  politely.     "  Go  ahead." 

"Well,  then,  the  reason  why  I,  old-fashioned  and  Philis- 
tine as  I  am,  hail  the  passing  of  the  Grand  Duke  with  joy  — 
and  I  cared  for  the  old  woman,  mind  you  —  is  just  this.  I 
see  some  chance  at  last  for  the  plain  man  —  not  the  clever 
man,  or  the  especially  spiritual  man  or  the  wealthy  man  — 
but  simply  the  ordinary  man.  When  I  say  Brotherhood  I 
don't  mean  anything  to  do  with  associations  or  meetings  or 
rules  —  Simply  that  I  believe  in  an  age  when  a  man's  neigh- 
bour will  matter  to  a  man  more  than  himself,  when  it  won't 
be  priggish  or  weak  to  help  someone  in  worse  plight  than 
yourself,  when  it  will  simply  be  the  obvious  thing  .  .  .  when, 
above  all,  there'll  be  no  jealousy,  no  getting  in  a  man's  way 
because  he  does  better  than  you,  no  knocking  a  man  down  be- 
cause he  sees  the  world  —  this  world  and  the  next  —  differ- 
ently. That's  my  Individualism,  my  Rising  City,  and  if  you 
had  watched  the  lives  of  a  few  friends  of  mine  during  the 
last  year  or  two  as  I've  watched  them  you'd  know  that  '  Love 
thy  neighbour  as  thyself '  is  the  fire  that's  going  to  bum  all 
the  Grand-Ducal  woods  in  the  world  in  time." 

Brun  laughed.  "  You'll  be  taken  in  horribly  one  of  these 
days,  Christopher." 


600  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

"  You  speak  as  though  I  were  a  chicken,"  Christopher 
broke  out  indignantly.  "  Man  alive,  haven't  I  lived  all  these 
years  ?  Haven't  I  seen  the  poorest  and  rottenest  and  feeblest 
side  of  human  nature  time  and  time  again?  But  this  I 
know:  That  it's  losing  the  thing  you  prize  most  that  pays, 
it's  the  pursuit,  the  self-denial,  the  forgetting  of  self  that 
scores  in  the  material,  practical  world  as  well  as  the  spiritual, 
heavenly  one.  That's  where  the  Millennium's  coming  from. 
Brains  as  well  perhaps,  but  souls  first." 

"  We'll  see,"  said  Brun.  "  A  bit  of  both,  I  dare  say. 
Anyhow,  it's  the  next  generation  that's  going  to  be  interest- 
ing. All  kinds  of  people  free  who've  never  been  free  before, 
all  sorts  of  creeds  and  doctrines  smashed  that  seemed 
like  Eternity.  The  old  woods  flaming  already.  Apres  la 
Duchesse!  .  .  .  But  as  for  your  Love,  your  Brotherhood, 
Christopher,  I've  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  human  nature  will 
change  very  little.  Unselfishness  ?  Very  fine  to  talk  about 
—  but  who's  going  to  practise  it  ?  Every  man  for  his  own 
hand,  now  as  ever." 

"  We'll  see,"  answered  Christopher.  "  I'm  not  clever  at 
putting  things  into  words.  If  I  were  to  go  along  to  the  man 
in  the  street  and  say,  *  Look  here,  I've  made  a  discovery  — 
I've  got  something  that's  going  to  make  everything  straight 
in  the  world,'  and  he  were  to  say,  *  What's  that  ? '  and  then 
I  were  to  answer,  *  Self-denial.  Unselfishness  —  Love  of 
your  neighbour,'  he  would,  of  course,  instantly  remind  me 
that  Someone  greater  than  myself  had  made  the  same  remark 
,a  few  thousand  years  ago.  He'd  be  right.  .  .  .  There's 
nothing  new  in  it.  But  it's  coming  new  to  the  world  just 
because  the  laws  and  conventions  that  covered  it  are  breaking. 
The  Tiger  in  Every  Man  and  Self-denial  to  curb  it  .  .  . 
That's  my  prophecy,  Brun." 

Brun  gave  himself  a  whisky-and-soda.  "  ITo  idea  you 
were  such  a  talker,  Christopher.  .  .  .  But  I'm  right  all  the 
same." 

He  held  up  his  glass. 


EPILOGUE  —  PKOLOGUE  601 

'*  Here's  to  the  Tiger  in  the  next  generation."  He  drank, 
then  held  it  np  again.  "  And  here,"  he  cried,  "  to  the  mem- 
ory of  the  last  Great  lady  in  England !  " 

ni 

When  Brun  had  gone  it  seemed  that  he  had  left  that  last 
toast  of  his  in  the  air  behind  him. 

Christopher  was  haunted  by  the  thought  of  the  Duchess, 
he  felt  her  with  him  in  the  room ;  she  stirred  him  to  restless- 
ness so  that  at  last,  desperately,  he  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 

His  steps  took  him,  round  the  comer,  to  Portland  Place; 
here  all  was  very  quiet,  a  few  cabs  in  the  middle  of  the  street, 
a  few  lights  in  the  windows,  the  silver  field  of  stars,  in  the  dis- 
tance the  sky  golden,  fired  now  and  again  into  life  as  a  rocket 
rose  shielding  beneath  its  glow  all  that  stirring  multitude. 
Sounds  rose  —  a  cry,  a  shout,  singing  —  then  died  down 
again. 

He  was  outside  N^o.  104.  He  thought  that  he  would  ring 
and  see  whether  Mrs.  !Newton  were  in ;  perhaps  she  had  gone 
to  bed,  it  was  after  eleven,  but,  if  she  were  there,  he  would 
take  one  last  look  at  the  Portrait  before  it  was  packed  up  and 
sent  down  to  Beaminster. 

Mrs.  ISTewton  unbolted  the  door  and  smiled  when  she  saw 
him  — "  I  was  just  going  to  bed  —  There's  only  myself  and 
Louisa  here  —  and  the  watchman." 

"  I  won't  keep  you,  Mrs.  Newton,"  he  said.  "  The  fancy 
just  took  me  to  look  at  some  of  the  pictures  once  more  before 
they're  packed  up.  Lady  Seddon  told  me  that  a  good  many 
of  them  were  to  be  packed  up  to-morrorw;  they  won't  look 
quite  the  same  at  Beaminster." 

"  'No,  that  they  won't,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Newton.  "  I  shall 
miss  the  old  house.  Just  to  think  of  the  years ;  and  now,  all 
of  us  scattered !  " 

She  lit  a  lamp  for  him  and  he  went  up  the  stone  staircase, 
found  the  long  drawing-room,  and  there,  on  the  farther  wall, 
the  Portrait. 


502  THE  DUCHESS  OE  WKEXE 

The  furniture,  shrouded  in  brown  hoUand,  waited  like 
ghostly  watchers  on  every  side  of  him.  The  huge  house,  al- 
ways a  place  of  strange  silences  and  vast  disturbances, 
multiplied  now  in  its  long  mirrors  and  its  air  of  cold  sus- 
pense as  though  it  were  waiting  for  something  to  happen, 
showed  its  recognition  of  death  and  death's  consequences. 

But  the  Portrait  was  alive !  As  he  held  the  lamp  up  to  it 
the  face  leapt  into  agitation,  the  eyes  were  bent  once  again 
sharply  upon  him,  the  mouth  curved  to  speak,  the  black  silk 
rustled  against  the  chair. 

A  host  of  memories  crowded  the  room,  he  was  filled  with 
a  regret  more  poignant  than  anything  that  he  had  felt  since 
her  death. 

"  She  nms  fine !  I  miss  her  more  than  1  had  any  notion 
that  I  would !     She  stirred  one  up,  she  made  one  alive !  " 

He  put  the  lamp  upon  the  floor  and  sat  down  for  a  minute 
amongst  the  shrouded  furniture. 

His  mind  passed  from  Brun's  generalizations  to  the  little 
bundle  of  people  whom  he  knew  —  Rachel,  Erancis,  Roddy, 
Lizzie  Rand.  To  all  of  them  the  Tiger's  moment  had  come ; 
and  out  of  it  all,  out  of  the  stress  and  suffering  and  struggle, 
Rachel's  child  was  to  be  bom  —  instead  of  the  Duchess  the 
new  generation.  Instead  of  this  old  house,  the  hooded  furni- 
ture, the  anger  at  all  freedom  of  thought,  the  jealousy  of  all 
enterprise,  the  slander  and  the  malice,  an  age  of  a  universal 
Brotherhood,  of  unselfishness,  restraint,  charity,  toler- 
ance .  .  . 

Perhaps  after  all,  he  was  an  old,  sentimental  fool.  There 
had  always  been  those  at  every  birth  and  every  death  who  had 
had  their  dreams  of  new  human  nature,  new  worlds,  new 
virtues  and  moralities.  .  .  . 

He  looked  his  last  at  the  Portrait  — 

"  I'm  nearly  as  old  as  you.  I  shall  go  soon.  But  I  miss 
you  .  .  .  you'd  be  yourself  surprised  if  you  knew  how 
much!" 


EPILOGUE  —  PROLOGUE  503 

He  took  up  the  lamp  and  left  her.  .  .  .  He  said  good  night 
to  Mrs.  Newton  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Standing  on  the  steps  of  the  house  he  looked  about  him. 
Portland  Place  was  like  a  broad  river  running  silently  into 
the  dark  trees  at  the  end  of  it.  There  was  a  great  rest  and 
quiet  here. 

Southwards  the  sky  flamed,  the  noise  of  a  great  multitude 
of  people  came  muffled  across  space  with  the  rhythm  in  it  of  a 
beating  song.  Rockets  slashed  the  sky,  broke  into  golden 
stars ;  the  bells  from  all  the  churches  in  the  town  clashed  and, 
from  some  great  distance,  guns  solemnly  booming  rolled 
through  the  air. 

Christopher,  standing  there,  smiled  as  he  thought  of  Brun's 
little  picture. 

Brun  springing  up,  of  course,  at  the  right  moment,  to  point 
his  moral.  Brun,  who  appeared,  like  some  Jack-in-the-box, 
in  city  after  city,  with  his  conclusion,  his  prophecy,  neat  and 
prepared. 

"  And  we'll  have  fires  out  of  the  Grand  Duke's 
Wood."  .  .  . 

There  was  the  Wood,  there  the  mob,  there  the  Grand  Duke, 
dead  and  buried  — 

Christopher  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  whatever  Brun  might 
say  human  beings  were  more  than  summaries,  prophecies, 
conclusions. 

As  he  looked  towards  the  trees  and  felt  a  little  breeze  caress 
his  face  with,  he  could  swear,  some  salt  of  the  sea,  he  thought 
of  the  human  beings  who  were  his  friends  —  Rachel,  Roddy, 
Lizzie,  Francis. 

And  then  it  seemed  to  him  that,  out  of  the  trees,  down 
the  shining  surface  of  Portland  Place,  a  figure  came  towards 
him  —  the  figure  of  Rachel's  child. 

THE   END 


